Faust With A Man Named Greed Poem by Manny Francis III

A few pounds not only put a few more
bruises in that beaten, forest door, but
also prompted him to open up and show me

the way in. His beard was weathered,
seen too many winters, too many heat-waves
all the same,
scraggly

like each hair had been dissected in
Freshman Biology, then crumpled to his chin
as a paper with a bad idea. He stood short and

hunched, Hobbit-like, but confident nonetheless,
as if he knew exactly what I wanted from him
and precisely how he'd get there.

His cottage was rundown and random,
naturally, but 'not like his friend's, ' he assured me,
the paintings of the greenest leas tilted on the
wall, carelessly measured after that windstorm
in late July. The stove, I noticed as he sat me down

in the kitchen, was wood-burning, filled the air
with a scent of fruit, maybe apples,
oddly enough.

Pots were strewn about the range. He'd
prepared a meal to impress me. Flattered
momentarily, I came to my senses.

We both knew why we were there.
He slapped a bowl of stew in front of me.
I'd eat it quickly. When I was done, he said,
expectedly, craftily, 'Don't be shy...
...Help yourself to some more.'

Copyright © 2008 Manny Francis III