Nowhere-Man

DOMINIC FONCE

It’s not located in the eyes, or the spine,
or the heart, but in the two hands—nails hacked, torn,
stress-bitten—and the draining brain.

It’s clear. I’m jealous. A poet discusses her father’s phone calls—
such inspiration—while unreliable flickers of Dad tease
my distant lobes. She says, “There’s a poem everywhere.”
I say, “There’s also a poem nowhere.”

It’s true. I’m jealous. You’re right; I’m left
alone, puzzled, puzzling
these razed patches of a man.
A mustache goes here. A bald spot goes there.

I carry a tin hand in mine; I start there—building, sculpting
a nowhere-man from a garbage heap. In there, only a single
Truth, from a pile of perfect ideas, can be assembled.