Hands engrained with all the wrinkled time,
spent climbing steel and icing bricks together.
They worked with wisdom,
like the aged wine mulled in the garage.
And in the passing years, eventually caved to other endeavors.
Eyes, scanning books with an ease, everything from presidents to disease,
some metaphorical fiction.
Always equipped by wit like a sharp garden tool.
No damn degree required here.
Now it's hard to be shaken from sleep,
Dates are weathered, every precipice foreign.
Only solace left is in your brothy stew,
or chicken soup—skip the meat, extra carrots.
But as the garden shrinks, lacking cool, crisp kohlrabi.
And all modern differences seem to dissolve in the air.
The firewood stops piling up.
No more Hungarian crepes.
Every facet dead,
except for the hand that steadies the same scratch.
Picking at the scab, from the ground up,
like it will revive a rotting brain.
Dumbie, as you'd say, please stop.
This almost timestamped your last day.
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