He is an ancient man,
Machined by mangled trends, and ends
Abridged in some other lesson,
Pinned to a board still fluttering,
Held on display for scowls o’ critical faces—
Meticulous cuts and cross-glances,
Glassy smirks, perpetual by his penning—
But, now He does not fit into her bedroom.
It must be a woman who dies second;
For man cannot cry and dry
In loosing such hoary…youth;
Still, I believe I taste the tears
In this chicken just now fried,
Maybe, she left for good;
Maybe,
Or perhaps formaldehyde.
