He waddles into the room.
They all watch his camel’s walk in their desert.
Heads swing like pendulums as he wends his way their way.
He spelunkles their cave,
lower jaw fixed in a smiling pout.
Ill-fitting teeth make a bat-clacking cha-cha as he moves.
Brillo-tufted chin jerkily moves in synch with them.
A toupee rests on his head like a beret on a bowling ball,
gray hair matted, weighted-stiff with muck
sponged from the air around him.
This day he changed his shirt,
a sere cloth of indistinguishable design.
Pearly-white skin peeps through a four-inch rent
where he clutches his pouch but fails to cover a droopy breast.
He unearths a seat, hidden beneath a pile of jackets,
people on either side leaning Towers of Pisa.
He mines his pouch
as their lemon-sucking faces glower,
and removes a sleeve of Saltine crackers.
gnaws at one daintily, pinky in the air.
Crumbs soon litter the table.
He mumbles garbled non-sequiturs
at the world around him.
Teeth and tongue conspire to splinter it with his presence,
then sighs as the Towers work to ignore him.