He lay on his back
on the eight-foot clipboard
with the top of his head held tight.
The odd figure standing over him
doodled and jotted down
the consequences of his life,
carefully dotting his eyes and
crossing his teeth and
making capitals with great flourishes.
There were scribbles in his margins
and notes on his feet
and thumbnail sketches,
and a great mess indeed.
Then the odd figure crumpled him up and looked
at the trash can,
wondering if he was worth two points.
Harry W. Yeatts Jr.