He is a giant in a world that no longer believes
In giants. There is nothing here that he has not seen
Before, and nothing that he has not heard before;
But he has learned the fine art of listening
And of faking interest because he knows
This is what the world needs from him –
Cynicism will simply not do in these
Wilted salad days. Children run amok,
Pulling the heads off abandoned Barbie dolls
While their parents drink skunk beer
Out of fine crystal glasses, reminiscing
About a past they neither remember
Nor understand. They find his house,
Catch him in the kitchen brewing tea, and
Ask him to give them a reading
From yesterday's tired leaves.
The women gaze longingly at his large feet.
The men are jealous of his luscious beard,
And ask what kind of conditioner he uses.
They leave the children outside to ravage the garden
And ask about the absence of his wife –
Not because they care, but because they know
The subject makes him weepy and prone to drink
And they want a taste of the sacred wine
He keeps stored in the cellar
With her ashes.