Richard, 43, Giant

At 43, Richard has lived past the age his father was

When the beanstalk split in twain

And what have I done with my life, thought Richard

As he sits on a cloud

Outside his son’s recital

What do I have to show

For myself

For years, growing up

He would fantasize

About going down to the Land of Small

And terrorizing the little ones

But his mother forbid it

And his mother was frightening

In ways that life was not

And so he stayed above the sky

In a castle that was significantly smaller

Than all his friends’ castles

And he learned to spin plates

And speak French

And quietly resented everyone

Richard found himself at 43

A man of a giant

Conflicted

Regretful

A bit of a drinker

He tried learning guitar

But found that his hands

Were too long

And so he ate the guitar

And swore off music forever

Sitting the cloud

Listening to the music

Coming from his son’s recital

He tried not to dislike his son

For being adept at something

He, himself, wished to be skilled at

But it was to no avail

He put his head in his too-long hands

And wept the tears

Of a giant

With very small dreams

That could not be realized

A tear fell

And he watched it go

Down, down, down

To see if it would hit anyone

And presumably kill them

Which would make him feel even worse about his life

But also, sort of glad

Since he was not a fan of the little ones
Who dwelled in the Land of the Small

The tear landed a farmhouse

Where a few geese

Were strolling around

Looking smug

As geese are wont to do

A man Richard’s age was sitting on a rock

Next to a tractor

And Richard wondered if perhaps this man
Was the man who killed his father

He also seemed forlorn

And undecided

As to whether or not

He was happy

To be sitting where he was sitting

Maybe he’s just not happy with his tractor

Richard thought

But then, the man saw the teardrop hit the ground

And he jumped off the rock he was sitting on

Clearly aware that raindrops

Are not supposed to be that large

Nor are they supposed to come

In individual packets

The man looked up into the sky

Maybe hoping to see a giant

Sitting on a cloud

Debating whether or not

He should have just flung himself down to the Earth

And taken out the entire farm

Smug geese and all

But, of course, he couldn’t see Richard

Though Richard could see him

Still, the man kept standing

And looking

And searching for something

As Richard stared, transfixed

Down at him

Then—he yelled

Screamed, hollered, howled

Into the sky

To Richard, it sounded like

A mouse yawning

But it must have been a tremendous roar

Down there in the Land of Small

Richard, inspired, stood up on the cloud

And yelled back at the man

He yelled until the clouds shook

Not just his, but every cloud

Trembling with the force of his voice

The music coming from his son’s recital

Grew louder as well

--Or was that in his head?

Who knew?
Who cared?
Who cared to know?

Richard didn’t

The clouds split in twain

And poured actual rain

Down onto the little man

In the Land of Small

And the sound of Richard’s son’s clarinet

Carried the rain throughout the land

And where there was a drought

There was now relief

And where there was dry earth
There was now soft soil

And where there was a man

There was now a giant

For that little man

Believed that he had, in fact

Brought about the rain

And where there was a giant

Named Richard

Sitting on a cloud

Shrinking into a teardrop

There was now a giant

Who felt as if he was finally

Standing tall