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.