His surname was Johnson.
He was one of the thousand Garys
born that week in the fifties
when people had no ready term
for every minor variation
from the norm. People were not
crazy then, or they were.
He had a thin face,
placid as a Modigliani,
his skin the shade of lake fog,
his hair beach-sand tan.
He wore perma-press slacks
an inch too short, that matched
his beige zip-front jacket.
How to describe a man who took
such pains to be nondescript:
he was like a curious word that,
once you finally learn its meaning,
you see everywhere.
He read the paper at the library,
always yesterday’s
so no one cared how long he took,
sitting in the corner behind the stacks
shaking the paper straight
as though in his living room chair.
He had opinions, my yes!
If anyone should ask.
Presumably he had a mother who
had stopped expecting him to give her
anything delightful to tell her friends.
He dined at art openings. Olives
and cheese cubes. Grapes, one by one.
Sometimes the table was lavish.
A little loaded plate
trembled in his long fingers.
But he did his part and stared
at the white walls bright with frames
and all the odd things people wore.