Once, he embodied objectivity: sour white
male in a tall black hat—like a mortician
crossed with Honest Abe.
Once, his talk was names, dates, facts
certain as sunrise, predictable as arithmetic.
Now he does impressions: Woman!
Black! Native American! A transsexual
named Herstory! Now s/he ad libs, improvises,
lies outright—a con, and proud to be.
It’s sad to see him/her these days—shopping
cart full of togas, kimonos, chain-mail suits—
shuffling shelter to shelter, dressed in rags,
unable to hold a job or speak a definitive
phrase—unable even to tell where
he/she has been, or how in hell she/he got there.