9672. THE ACOLYTE IS ON THE OUTS

THE ACOLYTE IS 

ON THE OUTS

I always thought it should be. One instead.

The acolyte is on the right. How trivial such

pursuit becomes when the mad-dashing cam

is catching knights in armor on the run. 

I fear for nothing, and all things together.

I fear for death, and for meeting my family.

I fear for the moment, most of all, of recognition:

the cold stone factor of Being; the rambling 

jaunt of how it goes. Blind children holding

coloring books and yet safe from the dissension

they sometimes bring. You say yellow. I say sing. 

I fear for closing the book that final last time,

for removing the dog's collar that very last night,

for eating my last cold, hard-boiled egg alright.

For waving good-bye, and really meaning it.

The last time ever to turn out the light.