Underestimating Eugene

Eugene had a normal enough head at birth;

made it thru the opening just fine.

But it grew too fast and over time

no hat would fit its’ twice normal girth.

He pulls a great shirt over it when winter is early,

falling snow collects too quickly

on his head like cotton, thickly;

bearing this for twenty years has made him surly.

It gave him special abilities, it’s true

to easily see some things crystal clearly.

Always certain, well almost, nearly;

but with a strange list of things he could not do.

He could not walk near too near an edge;

to lean at all usually prefaced a fall.

Could not be ubiquitous when it was needed,

could not peek around a corner unheeded,

from behind his unnecessarily articulate wall.

Though he persistently reproduced his literary half-smile

when each of the reviews were read,

none ever noticing his excellently longwinded style

what critics remembered was that oversized head.

His sword became dulled and his penmanship unsteady,

his tune became locked in a minor key;

he too readily was excusing mediocrity,

as if all that is clever to read has been written already.

In amongst the hidebound bundle of blue lined yellow sheets

where onomatopoeia quietly plays,

among often bittersweet cliches

his undercompensated ego is prone to overheat.

He makes us wince with indifferent styles, our boy Eugene.

Ee wants to quite badly, but usually can’t

come up with much better than a second-class rant;

so he wears out vindictive, bad tempered, and mean.

They believe he is harmless but don’t actually know

if the barking that clamors for most of the night

is unnecessarily alarming or worse than his bite;

a poignant and heartfelt written lament, or part of the show.