'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.

____

Comments welcome