The old man shuffles into the room hunched hair disheveled,
Cracking jokes like a fire whose flame not long for this world,
Reduced to ashes by an overbearing woman he’s called his wife
For some fifty plus years... Babied, cajoled, manipulated,
All traces of dignity slashed by her feckless meandering control.
He relies on his joke, brushes back his wisp of black gray locks,
Then, retelling the same story of his broken youth
Like catching the same fish over and over in a lake of no return,
One last run
In the land of the right of return
In the land of the eternal burning urn.
King Herod had it all: ruled over the land,
But his heart was sour,
And he killed his sons with a mighty sword,
While this old man killed just one with words
That stung into eternity
Smoke House sauce poured over clown bite chuckles,
And the sacrificed son tends to his broken fire.
Torn at the sleeve,
Limping along,
Through the fall-turning leaves,
Skidding on a world of fresh starts,
Crashing sparks,
Rummaging the dark for jewels of the heart.
Memories and years piled up
Like a highway auto love fest accident,
Frost-quilted eve snow
Buried behind stones’ secret crust.
Cold stone of untold thoughts, secret costs,
Shared gold, sacred rust.
