Pocoangelini's feet
Were like two shovels. His beat
was down by the waterfront
where barges shunt and the neat
gulls rudder
through the air; where the shudder
of engines among pilings
and piers makes silence flutter
down the bay
like a flight of pigeons. Day
after day Poco, in big
shoes, would wiggle knobs on gray
doors and swing
his billy. Then, one evening,
at his rattle a door flew
loosely wide. He stood staring
on thresholds
of shadow into great folds
of darkness that hung down from
the rafters. Marigolds
were the first
to bloom into his eyes. Worst
of all were the irises
rising from the thirst-
raging well
of the warehouse. Then a bell's
sound, like snowdrop swans swimming,
came brimming his ears. It fell
and gently
lay near his shoes: quite simply,
these had shrunk. He moved one pace
forward and was amazed—the
ache vanished
as the monstrous garden washed
toward him like a rainbow
sea. Now fright drowned him; it dashed
the door to
behind him. Poco's blue
figure hurtled down the street.
His feet throbbed and burned. He knew
they were blown
big as balloons again. Down
the walk he ran, stumbling, till
his shoes had swollen, had grown
back to their
former size. He would not stare
at so much gross beauty for
the fairest, the straightest pair
of strong feet
on the Force. Back on his beat
the gulls ruddered in the air,
wove rare threads through his retreat.
~ Lewis Turco
