Richard

you are not over the hump--

the Armani suit

fits like a glove

highlighting your deformity-

a tumor-

stretching the expensive fiber.

Varicose veins cover you

like a road map

save the whites of

your dimmed eyes.

On your walk

along the strip

of your diminished kingdom

the lads on the corner

whisper " Who's the gimp?"

The lady in the bar

rejecting your insidious advances

with an air of coultivation

" Get lost, you ill-formed toad."

The ghosts that haunt you

vanished

now that you popped

the Prozac.

Yet...

in confidence

you tell me--

your singular audience

that you have deals to cut

evil to consummate,

during

your highly

rated winter

of discontent

Hey---

" Let's do lunch?"