There in a wheelchair,
his final possession,

sat an old giant from my youth
a mere seventy-seven
shriveled and bruised

with a half-healed ropey,
half-dark jerky scab
bisecting the pecs,
                                  down
his concave chest
from one triple bypass

for an ogre who spat
such turpitude at wife & children
decades degrading
with scorn and tone

now worn
after espousing such inner decay
through temper
as they possess in thrift,
tens as much animosity
and womanizing vice.

Tho,
there he sat in silence
fingers deftly unwrapping
sugar free chocolates,

a mitzvah crinkling karma
                      thru the ether,
seemed more for his sickly
obsessive & limited appetite

but sweets
always worked on this ogre

who suggested we scoot
down rehab hall to the lobby's
bay window where outside
the World continued on Fire with progress
                                                            & hurry,
a pause
a look
that same giant's wink:

from my youth
when telling the taller tales
despite an obvious pit of truth,
convincingly until a wink

inexplicable, natural
                     -  sly from the left  -

as much tho could never excuse
decades of spite toward
strangers & kin
until filthy sloth & squalor overcame . . .
lecherous . . .

And there he sat on my right,
waiting in silence for silence
speaketh loud, clear notes

such a weight I'd not truly heard
until then
when a life was compressed, boiled down
to the last of its basic elements
and there were no more words,

                                   No more words,
only the juxtaposition of generations
separated by wood, glass, & brick

to an outside World still burning
as the weight of silence reigned inside.