237. NOT TOO MUCH, NOT TOO MANY

NOT TOO MUCH,

NOT TOO MANY
I haven't had much good time lately -
merely a holding pattern, and to that
I have to add 'perhaps'. I saw a picture
today of a guy I once knew. At present he's
much older, and - like mine - his older
face had set fuller and solid. Age makes
people rock-like in the hardness of
their faces - until it all falls apart, even later,
and everything sags to an atrocious, fleshy
blubber. The kind of thing old men have -
trying to talk, while the skin of their face
moves in a hundred different directions.
It's a sideshow of seniority and senescence
together, all as one, all over the place.
This fellow's picture I mentioned - that's
where the difference was at. He was
standing over a stove or a table, mixing some
food to be cooked - what looked like shanks
of some meat in a sauce. To which he
was sprinkling seasons or some spice.
From his lips, oddly, dangled a cigarette
with the longest ash I'd ever seen.
He was smirking, as he looked down.
Nothing seemed exactly right, the distance,
the time, the action, but it was,
unmistakeably, him, and

unmistakeably, ash.