He is drawing
a vaguely pornographic wolf
on a school-issued tablet.
His is fragile, thin–
his wrist small and cold
as a sparrow’s ankle.
Above the screen,
his hand moves —anxious,
a trembling snowflake.
The smell of unwashed days,
of lonely chatroom nights.
Sick blue screenshadow pooling
beneath his young old man eyes.
Slouched fetal against
his plastic chair,
He breathes,
open-mouthed.
The headpiece
of his wolf costume
(worn polyester, fraying
like a child’s blanket)
lolls its pink tongue
carelessly between his feet.
The bus hums over a swamp.
Outside the windows, spring—
rosemallow sprouting,
crimsoneyed, redolent.
A heron rises from the mud,
slicing through pink water lilies,
then vanishes behind the trees.
He studies his drawing
Harrison Weber
Harrison is a school teacher in Baltimore City. He does not own a car and walks everywhere he goes. On these walks, he sees various people, trash, and animals.