the laughing man

the man
on the bench,
dark with
a devilish
grin, angular
as if made
out of sticks,
with bright
eyes, white
bowls of mirth,
a tilted
hat on his
scruffy head,
that is no
longer blue,
a homeless bag
at his side,
is laughing.
not at me, or
anyone, not
at the squirrels,
or traffic,
or the sirens
that scream
throughout
the city.
he's just
laughing. i am
across from
him on my own
bench eating an
icecream cone
and i fear
for the world
because of his
strange and
wonderous joy.