The dark as knight, elderly man
with the hyper rapidly shrinking spine
Whom nobody sees
Just the custodian
Somewheres on the fifth floor
The place which stands directly between Heaven and Hell
with the screaming and commotion
With his wrinkled fingers
Aged hands
He. Just the custodian.
Drew the collapsed and rumpled bag
shook it , with the ease of a jazz player , twice
Then with those arthritic ancestoral hands
smoothed out the inside with a brisk swipe
With the delicacy of smelling a rose
attuned and attended
Upon completion
Wisdom…a dexterity for situations
a magic that only comes with length of years
Does work wonders
me, just a mess from the fifth floor, wishing…
He could do the same as that bag, for my whole life
