as exhausted with life as he sounded?
Or was it simply weary disgust
with the ones who were never satiated,
no matter how deeply they had drunk,
and those who could never simply
enjoy what was in front of them
rather than ache for what was just
beyond their desperate, relentless fingers?
He saw that a time came in the
life of even the most
flesh-gorged hunter
when the days offered
no joy in the fresh kill,
and decline and sorrow became all.
It will never be any different,
he said in his
sun scorched realism.
In the background
I hear the carnival barkers
shouting "God wants
you, yes YOU to be rich"
and I have to laugh
as I raise a glass
to him.
Right on the money, again.
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