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Harangued by voiceless
apparitions from numerous
encounters with his own limits
as a man, the comrade ruminates,
considers his life.
In the days when tuxedos were all the rage
he could use a bowtie to suppress
the truth inside his epiglottis, a
Russian here-a Belgian there.
He still remembers
that time when he would speak
or conjure, how his men danced
as women wept while
he, cool as a bassist
could raise a battalion with a finger,
a village with a thumb.
Today he collects
mostly smoked cigarette
butts on Barrow Street
for attempting to distort
not only the truth
in this world, but that
which lives within the fields
of our imagination.
