Slump-shouldered and baggy-assed,
squinting through bifocals at apples and oranges
in the produce section of a tourist grocery,
plucked of executive mien, awkward now
out of habitat, so much shorter
than when he stood behind podiums
at workshops in five-star ballrooms
exhorting us to up the ante,
hair no longer sculpted by spray,
no bright bow tie or big gold watch,
sharp redbird profile fallen to wagging
buzzard neck and downturned mouth
First name “Bob”
Can’t remember last
From him I learned we’re born
with only so much heart for horseshit:
no room in our troubled lives
for his kind of aggravation
When finally I tap his shoulder
to say “Nice to see you again
after all these years,”
the only grief he’s left to give me
is a has-been’s smile that scowls,
“I’ll tell what I know if you’ll
tell me what you know
when we meet again in hell”