What It’s Like Underneath / Joshua Alan Sturgill
A homeless man said this
to himself in my hearing
if I can’t be inspirited by ideas
what good will pictures do me?
and when images fail words fall
like a storm over the ocean
where nothing grows and there’s
no use for the rain. I have
paraphrased, of course. People nod
so as not to start a fight but
who listens? Fidelity
is what he said we need
so we can quarrel and go back
and change our minds
and try to think again
and trust the other is keeping up
without evaluating too soon. He said
the world is new when the word
washes me hard though I resist.
And I leap out, standing still.
You have to learn to know an idea
yourself, say hello to it, otherwise
some damn fool will tell you
what it means and you’ll never
be able to shake off his lies.
I pretended to look at an oncoming car
because eye contact implies
evaluation. Bodies are just there
but eyes make irreversible decisions.
He went on that even children know
how to name their pets and toys:
face to face, with the reverence
one consciousness owes to another.
There were expletives and pauses
but this was the heart of it:
If I can’t find the proper emotion
for the appearance a thing chooses
for itself when it first finds me
— fear or wonder or disgust —
how could it trust me enough
to show me what it’s like underneath?
If I’m not honest at every level
of being to every being
can I even trust that I’m alive?
All poetry and supplementary material: copyright 2026 by Joshua Alan Sturgill. All rights reserved.
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