the Lord is sore

I can tell because he no longer lingers at the table after dinner,
   and falsely claims the wine is tasteless
      ('tepid as the red sea in december' as he puts it)

no more rummy either (he never answered me
   about the four-card problem)
       instead he retires to his room,

half yawning half talking he utters,
   "oh, I think I should like to haaaay dowmmmn"            
       or
        "I'm afraid its all downstream for me... nighty nigh you sons of
                Beeehhhhhnjamins"

I say he is smitten with boughs and therefore withered

its probably just old age, he doesn't realize it but he's getting on

"Holy Mount Vesuvius!" comes a scream from his room  "not since the
    Land of Egypt."

"what is it, what is wrong my Lord?" I implore

"my crown," he stammers, "my crown of flowers is fading"

"I'll look into it in the morning O' Great Lord of Right Judgment"
I say offhandedly, hoping for no rebuke

"what's that you say?"

"I say in the morning, for morning, by morning; we shall not be vexed by it now"

  hoping some old carnage will soothe him

"be not mockers" he quips

"I love you Lord" I say turning off the lamp near his bed

"I love you too my Kadesh"

"to thee o' Lord, I shut the door"

he waves me off.

a city, once great, falls
and vanishes,

a ruin-mound now stands
occupied by consumption

one time when we were alone

he asked me to sit in front of him

he asked me to stare in his eyes

what could this old man want now, I thought

"just look at me"

so I stared into his eyes

and so deeply did I fall

into peace

until tears rended a river.