He was known throughout the city as

The Great Shrinking Man;

The Collapsible, Unalterable Handbag Man-

Sometimes he took long rests in the handbags of fashionable women

Without them knowing he was there.

Sometimes he retreated to his Cave,

The name he gave his apartment on 19th.

Inside the Cave he was able to grow back to his ordinary height.

Those things that made him shrink:

Sunshine, imported wines, superiors, officials, Greek coffeehouses, upscale dwellings, high-rise office buildings (past the 16th floor he had to be careful not to slip through the crack where elevator met carpet), carbonated beverages, guilt, guilty feelings, guilty-looking strangers, rabbis and the buds falling from sycamore trees in late autumn; pencil erasers, pencils, middle-aged women, hope, hoping, and duct tape among other things.

But windows were the worst.

And also anything prickly.

And unripe peaches.

People would show up at his door and demand that he shrink for their friends who did not believe them because they were prone to
fabrications.

They said:

'Shrinking Man, why don't you shrink?'�

And he would shrink right there in the doorway

(For anyone who demands something is an instantaneous superior),

Or he would shrink when they produced something threatening enough for him to shrink.

Throughout his brief life he searched for the Shrinking Girl,

Sure that she was just around the next block.

In order to do this he had to be shrunken-

In order to do this he had to take one step out into the hallway-

If that didn't work:

All he had to do was take one step outside.

Rain made him shrink.

And rain clouds.

And approaching rain clouds.

And roasted peanut vendors (In those days they were everywhere,

Circa 1949).

1949 was the best year for shrinking.

1946 had been even better.

The Great Shrinking Man looked for the Great Shrinking Girl

And one morning saw her and followed her all the way to the end of South Street,

Where she drowned herself in the river

Because she was so small and so alone

And probably would have been stepped on anyway.

The Great Shrinking Man thought about drowning himself too,

But he was afraid because

He knew how to swim.

Nothing saves a person, especially a great shrinking man, from drowning

Better than the backstroke.

One day he shrunk from the sight of his mirror

And never again assumed his natural height.

The worst part was climbing up to his armchair

And trying to get comfortable in one of the buttonholes

Traced into the fire-colored velvet.

Several thousand disadvantages ensued.

Tourists still dropped by but couldn't find him anywhere.

He did receive free lifts in taxis,

But it was rare for him those days to journey out.

And his apartment became a world.

And the world became a metaphor for his apartment.

Most importantly:

He didn't have to speak to anyone;

Even if he tried his voice was about as audible as an ant scratching its' ear.

The Great Shrinking Man was finally tired:

At that height one had to rush around

To get anywhere.

With terrible effort one night he pulled himself onto his bed

And slept for hours,

Then for days.

And 1949 was gone.

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