She asked me why I spoke like rain 
 that falls in tropics, unobserved, 
 and if I knew the reason why 
 dessert is always lastly served, 

And I said "I have no idea. 
 And no. At home, I eat pie first, 
 and if I'm hungry, still, eat more, 
 or maybe sit and slake my thirst." 

She shook her head in sad regard, 
 and said, "You are a mellophone." 
 I knew quite well just what she meant: 
 a mobile horn or baritone, 

Who specializes in off-beats. 
 I thought then of her piercing gaze, 
 and said, "And you're a golo spear." 
 She smiled broadly, quite unfazed, 

And said. "How often have you used 
 that metaphor? It seems quite odd." 
 And I said, "Never." "All the same," 
 she spoke, "It feels like pasquinade."

And so it was. And so it is: 
 my imitation of a mind 
 that can't be captured anywhere,
 or anywhere that I can find

The Nonagenarian

Four-and-ninety years ago, 
He first came to these hills, 
The child of a couple doomed 
By undeveloped pills 

But somehow, he survived the times 
And lived on to relate  
The way he nearly fought the war 
(His birthday came too late) 

Instead, in southeast Asia, he 
Performed with passing valor 
A thing he sometimes thinks about, 
And wakes, in sweat and pallor 

But that was sixty years ago. 
So much around him changing, 
His escapades, mere stories now, 
His mind slowly deranging -- 

But in the hills again, he finds 
He can give up resistance, 
And hear the echoes of a past 
That other, whole