There is a clock in the garden and a man
standing for the camera holding a black leather jacket.
His head is shaved. There is an elephant made of leaves.
Purple and red flowers glow in the light.
The paint is chipping on the railing.

He's not allowed in this garden with the clock and the railing
but he jumps over anyway. It says: 80 years, with a I, II, III, and IV on its face.
This is how he's supposed to tell time. The hands are raised a foot off the ground
and he sits on one gigantic piece of metal to pose.

This is the zoo. He smiles for the picture; a giraffe reaches its head
out to the crowd. Everyone's back is turned. Nobody notices him.
Everyone wants the giraffe to touch their fingers, to eat from their hands.

There are two trees. One has green leaves and is tall and sharp;
the other is barren, exposing itself. Its character lies in its emptiness.
And the alarming contrast it creates among the living.

This one looks more familiar, but he is still changing.
Soon the lips will not be as full, the face will be more angular.
There will be more hair under his chin, he will need to buy
a razor and ask his father for advice. His hairline will recede

but this isn't clear; instead, the tight shirts are; the smile is.
He stands on the promenade along Farm Cove at twilight
looking at the poised arch of the Harbour Bridge and
at the Opera House that's under construction
its sail-like roofs almost mystic.

Jody Helfand has an MA in English and an MFA in Creative Writing. His poems have appeared in over 30 journals and magazines, including The Pedestal Magazine, Illuminations, The Georgetown Review, Bamboo Ridge, Visions International, and The Rio Grande Review. His current obsessions include Stanley Park, Sigur Ros, carrot juice, and his family.