Tom Snyder: Collected Poems

Roy’s Mustache

Yours is not
a thunderhead of hairs bristling
with old testament
revenge, not
chimneys of dark smoke
issuing from a cracked planet,
not the military belch of blackness
which stiffens a peaceful view.

No, not a crow would care
if you plucked it from its feathers.
You could pin it to your forehead
but nobody would notice.

God knows, it’ll never pull stumps,
never stampede from your face like a herd of horses,
never speed steep grades like a runaway truck.
There’s nothing of manifest destiny,
no heavyweight championship
scribbled on your lip.

Rather this: a tiny candlefish, a whisper
instead of a shout, the lacy wings of a dragonfly.
Rejoice then, for you have crucified no one,
not even the animals.