The tubes feed me familiar words as they feed you life.

I have never met you, I had no awareness of your existence

Until recently and I have seen little of your suffering and strife.

I don’t possess the wit or the talent to write what your life meant in one sentence.

I can measure only in minute amounts your memories by fleeting photograph

On a delicate digital screen, that cumbersome and dishonest

Perverted distorter of your life, which doesn’t show all you have loved and how you laugh,

And how much now you fight and match this murky disgusting pest.

When time dictates, I shall tremble as I think of what wishes to send.

I shall bow my head, think of your beloved and bemoan blasted time

Of which, of course, we think we have in spades.

Always time to greet a friend, no more time in the end

I curse the criminal act of death, its payment of a dollar or a dime,

And its bonus pay taken of child, the old, bachelor or maid.

Ian D. Hall