He was old and foolish,
Predicaments not inextricably conjoined.
His friends for reasons linked to gain
But writ in friendship’s tawdry advertisements
Put him on a skewer and turned him hot
for a delicacy twixt food and sleep.

His pain is Indies spice for sluggish
Palates that dine on grief
And those that smirk at antique desire.
They, whose slack grasp exceeds their stunted reach,
Who sleep when wounds do not flower.

Old man your rounds are rare as love.
But you sing fast
As students snore and babies quicken.
Your speed engulfs your vegetable betters.