Priam

The old half-eaten tamarind of a man
Stands in the mirror watching
His skin sag in the breeze
His neutral-colored remembrances
Are of little comfort now
“...but my was I a sight to behold”
His poetry hangs in the air like a vacuum
Nature spares him this customary judgment
For a pity it keeps unpleasantly
“I really could have been something if...”
Each new haiku runs and
strands itself amid the crowd
as it knows itself unfulfilled like their maker
stacking and piling in the mirror
There is no shining city in the glass
“I guess I’ll go back to bed”