The walking stick that got him into heaven

 He got to the window and pursed his lips
what boxes still needed to be ticked off
the longlist the spirit is just little squares and checks
floating on thin air and rough ideas of productivity

He placed his walking stick point on the carpet and steadied himself
Every joint formed an ember and lit up inside his bones
He pursed his lips again confusion overiding pain
Like one ghould pushing the other out

he stumbled across the white rug to his smoke stale lazy chair
cigarette in his mouth and an expression as if he was calculating something
each drag contemplative of the fire ware and tear on his body
pursed lips whatever he needed to take serious has slipped his mind

Old man what do we grow into at this point
the blue wall paper and the blue sheets
her corpse upon it, arms crossed in simulated peace
Teeth bared in an extinction open mouth smile

you potter around the tiny kitchen
So many ages have passed
pleasant times and illusions
the illusions often served instead truth

what sauce do you make of this old man
you point your walking stick and make fun how clever
flimsy white curtains and some nurse to organize heaven
then I see you approach the invisible temple pursed lips

half finished sermon nostalgia rhetoric and soft soup
easily slurped up inside a wide straw with optimism
Don't share any of you secrets of wisdom
don't show any of your sadness

Because I was inside there for quite a while and know every pitch
every speech and every angle every scar and every stitch
for I am the lost one my elder the loner hill pariah
Here to exist and exploit the glitch

The rejected one not fit for sport, nor exacts, nor math
useless burden boiling over with meager words for wrath