no one knows.

With rings on his fingers and decisions to make

What stood in front of me was Arthur.

He grew up singing church songs and reciting

The dictionary.  Full of the English language.

What was weird to me was the dirt under his nails

And the way his wife wore lipstick.

It wasn’t the Ruby Red kind.

It was more like the Depths of Death Black.

A cigarette hanging out her luscious mouth

With a pack in her back pocket and the afternoon to kill.

To follow the man back home would be a waste.

Time here is precious and we can’t reuse it.

Count in twos only on Tuesdays and mow

Your lawn only in June.

His words are here to stay and to play,

Tie your shoe and don’t eat glue.