Through the concrete poured
Florida Faux Wilderness,
mingled in a sea of fat, well oiled, poorly
aging hypocrites, his patent leather hair stands
tall above, a shining flashlight flicker.
He breathes his pseudo-Santa chortle
with that muted scent of gingerbread.
Deep-voiced, poised, each utterance
a moment for posterity.
His is the sweet translucent air
of dignity.  But who will be its heir?
Erratic though it is, his heart
beats along this sandy song - fragility.
Brittle bones, I pull you to my chest.
Embrace me in your majesty.

-Neal Miller, 1993