And it's his honesty that scares you.
Retire to my ivory tower I'll,
Made of palpable bricks and bodies
Where muddy thoughts prime thickly
The surface 'neath the exterior shine.
The surface 'neath the exterior shine.
Where is the pretty plain ivory ?
Retiring in a tipsy haze
That Friday night before the weekend,
I met a man on the street.
The man was drunk.
Yet, in spite of the Friday festivities,
The sweet fermented grain
Frothed - perhaps - in him
A dormant fermenting.
For
He almost cried. He did not howl.
The fellow held it back from the stranger
As though sentimental is not correct form.
Held back as he thought aloud of his mother
Back home in Columbia. Of her
Who had worked - back-breakingly - in the cotton fields
So that her son could eat and clothe
In comfort.
He held it back from me
When he choked about his circumstance
Which only makes for a comedian's joke.
The funny thing being his comfortable salary.
The other funny thing - Him thinking.
Why think when there's a comfortable salary ?
Why think when there's a comfortable salary ?
(Don't they say "Ignorance is Bliss" -
That maxim which most always
Lives up to its billing.)
That maxim which most always
Lives up to its billing.)
Why care for how the world revolves. For how,
While he folded to cosy comfort,
His fellow Egyptians dared.
While he folded to cosy comfort,
His fellow Egyptians dared.
Yet the funnier thing is
He kept saying sorry to me,
Again and again,
Again and again,
For having these "issues" harbored,
And having to bother a stranger in hurry
To talk to.
The only token true thing I could give back to him,
Smiling, was the starlight coming from afar,
That must look a little extra beautiful
Over Egypt for a few days.
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