There was a man on Ninth Street
Who hated everything about himself.
He wanted to work, but couldn’t.
He tried to pet a dog, and lost some flesh.
Whatever he did, wherever he went,
He never found what was wrong.
He sat on his chair for days
And thought about his losing ways.
He stared at the ceiling at morning light
And kept at it evening through night.
A fortnight’s brainstorming did nothing
Till Bruce struck a lightening blow.
The hyped spider performed on a silky trapeze
To inspire the hollow-headed freak.
Finding parallels where nothing runs apace,
He decided to set his beginnings right.
Just as the eight-legged started all over again,
Mr. Ninth Street was fated to go back in time.
A baby born nine and twenty years ago,
A mother tending both a garden of grass and ado.
One among many, just as sane, just the same –
He saw himself trip over his father’s name.
Life that was content with itself,
A happy face in the audience of death,
The carelessness of chance and fumbling hands –
Inappropriate he was, but could he do anything?
Bruce II faced his past,
He fought them hard, too hard.
His only treasure – the portraits on the wall
Were broken; his knuckles hurt, his fingers bled.
Forever stuck like a fly on glue,
He sat to think again, he sat to rue.
He stared at a deserted tower
Till the day’s light grew dim and dour.