on the rocking chair of a tired back
oiled mouth with soiled hands of toil,
cool drink of profuse sweat,
he had dinner to go to bed.
one last look at the million legs he led
from mothers house, past the saguaros
and seif dunes.
he bids farewell to the sad sublunary,
its glittering thorns of the milky
and zig zagged bolt from above.
he shut his door and eyes to open them
no more.
saves for a little sunny child
the remains on the dinner table:
champagne made hot with ordency
along with milk fresh with tenderness,
shoe worn out with perseverance
along with a staff of patience,
the sound of name the way he said it
along with a baton to carry on the heritage.