'Not like that, like this,' said the small man,
Rapping his knuckles on my day.
I withhold, and sit back, watching.
He stumbles from one page to the next,
Unsure of his next move.
His veins flex.
I say nothing.
There is nothing to say.
'I lead, you follow,' said the small man,
In denial of the fact that he is more lost than I.
I demur, and sit back, watching,
As he trips over his lapdogs to find his feet.
He doesn't feel their bite,
But takes time to tip them with a treat.
I say nothing.
There is nothing to say.
'We work to live,' said the small man,
Lying to himself while he rows upstream.
I shrug, and sit back, watching.
As he loses his stroke, the doctors gather
With knives in hand for the feast.
Exit cadaver.
I say nothing.
There is nothing to say.
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