The Poetry of
Michael G. Khmelnitsky

Advancing homeward on a road less travelled,
I spied the opening of a garage.
There at its entrance stood a man, unmoving,
Quite solid in his form, not a mirage.
The man was tall, his body elongated,
Immobile yet, in navy blue bedecked.
I saw: He was suspended by his neck.
My heart of pulse had swiftly then vacated.
But no—just as I passed that cursèd den
The man had realigned his heavy frame.
I saw that all was well anon. Again,
I merely had been hoodwinked by his gait.
I turned the corner and myself had asked
If for an instant madness was unmasked.