He begged me to save him from himself poem by Joan Pond

No Man

My client sat near the philodendron,
it’s shiny leaves receding.
Anthony said, ‘I’m concave’,
and he begged me to save him
from himself.
But he was a cavern,
a bottomless pit.
He transmogrified
as a snowman in the sun,
quickly changing from solid to gas.
He was an amorphous mass
seated on my couch.
And as an M.C. Escher print
he began spiraling in,
until coal black eyes
and a button nose
were all
that remained.