Dem Bones

This poem is my wife’s favorite of my poems.  It is also unlike my other poetry.  Mmm. 

DEM BONES

Know your own bone; gnaw at it, bury it, 
unearth it, and gnaw at it still.—Thoreau

When the man with no bones hit New York,
the line extended around the block.
Some would walk by just to see him
lying in his cotton suit puddle.
Others would ask his advice
and prize his every word.
They would tell their friends:
He’s no bonehead.  He would never rib you.
He has no bones to pick.

A TV network heard about him,
and he was on their morning show.
At first, he kept slipping beneath the coffee table,
but at the commercial they pinned him to the sofa.
They asked about his occupation.
-Surveillance, just slides under locked doors.
And even about his love life.
-Treated by most women like a bad stain.

As luck would have it,
a famous orthopedist saw the show
and called in offering to do
the first complete bone transplant:
two hundred and six separate operations,
connecting each bone to another,
from the toe bone to the head bone,
one bone at a time.

Years of surgery and pain,
then finally, he walked around
just like you and me,
did everything just like you and me,
and, of course, no one cared.