Silver Surfer

When not doubled up in an asteroid's pocket
- more molten trophy cabinet
than man -
he walks among us, his trenchcoat a thicket,
looking ill, his eyes white stones.
Stopping to read a newspaper,
even though the headlines tie an anchor
to his stomach and heart.

Then something escapes
the grassblade lips that could press coins
and his board comes to him
like a waterfall to its pool.

He's upon it, and flying,
faster than a ghost swift,
fainter than a scarecrow in a blizzard.