He’d painstakingly inched along
From his room, in a wheelchair
So slowly that with each rotation
The world made a rotation on its axis,
He made glaciers look swift.
He was so very old
That time had made knots in his mind,
And knit wrinkles in his spine.
He sat in front
Of that silver machine
And asked me
“How do I get ice out of here?”
Honesty is the best policy,
Or so I’ve been told
So I plainly told him,
“Sir, that’s a blanket warmer.”
– Vagabond Prophet
Vagabond Prophet 