The Mysterious Naked Man

A mysterious naked man has been reported

on Cranston Avenue. The police are performing

the usual ceremonies with coloured lights and sirens.

Almost everyone is outdoors and strangers are conversing

 excitedly

as they do during disasters when their involvement is

 peripheral.

'What did he look like?' the lieutenant is asking.

'I don't know,' says the witness. 'He was naked.'

There is talk of dogs—this is no ordinary case

of indecent exposure, the man has been seen

a dozen times since the milkman spotted him and now

the sky is turning purple and voices

carry a long way and the children

have gone a little crazy as they often do at dusk

and cars are arriving

from other sections of the city.

And the mysterious naked man

is kneeling behind a garbage can or lying on his belly

in somebody's garden

or maybe even hiding in the branches of a tree,

where the wind from the harbour

whips at his naked body,

and by now he's probably done

whatever it was he wanted to do

and wishes he could go to sleep

or die

or take to the air like Superman.