see how he crumbles
into dust, this man made
of stone
see the years erode his face,
wearing away
his show of strength
until he is flesh and bone
just like the rest
of us
who knew
more bone; flesh having given
way to wine
cups and cups of wine; he calls
goblets and guzzles
beads of grey sweat
on his facsimile of skin,
above his quivering lip
beads of wine
But he roars still, imagines himself
thunder
when he’s been mouse all along
hiding in the holes
of his childhood memories
and then scurrying away from us
Always, this man
running
never finding a version
of his life
he can accept
and his tears now fall
into the cavity
which used to hold a heart
wearing down what is left
until
there’s only chalk outline
nancyornot 