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.
