Robert Castagna
Is surrounded by books of poetry.
He looks surreal
sitting under a chalkboard
of unsolved formulas.
A fingernail scratched
across the surface
does not disturb him.
Did he see Medusa?
If only through a slight crack
in an otherwise unopened eye?
Even so, his countenance is calm.
When he caught her eye
he did not cower.
Like a man facing the firing squad
he tricked the mind
by smoking his last cigarette.
