I saw the giant among
mobs of people, most of the
kids staring. The rain
pounded the pavement. And
there, in the shimmer and lights,
he turned his sad head to me. I
couldn’t let him know I saw.
What could become of this? The
giant, his figure
at least nine feet, or eight 5,
me not even three feet in
socks. His hair was gold,
his neck a
fetching, neatly tied red
kerchief. I was a trike, he a firetruck.
Still, there we were, moving
toward each other, tense
but strangely in the crowd, unheeded.
It was as if we were dancing to
and fro, the tympani and gong
of thunder, the clangs
of rain on metal signs, as a siren
sounded in the distance. Amidst the howls
hubbub, suddenly, I was aware of wheels
turning, traffic rumbling.
I turned then and ran around and through
the crowd. The
sweet, sparkling rain in the dark
was my cape as I flew through the city.
**This form is called a “golden shovel,” wherein the last word of each line of the poem composes a completely different poem. Specifically, “The Great Figure” by William Carlos Williams.