
Long past his high-scoring days--
To get up from his winged chair
The clock no longer ticks
The room wears a living sash--
Ghosts of ethnicity's chameleon--
Dressed over a television
That repeats the sound
Of Pac's opening act
With each quarter they meet
An endless plume wafts
From a leather-caged pyre
As teeth chatter relentlessly
At an end table of expired pellets
Just out of reach
Ice meets a warm demise
In a untouched glass
That waits for an intermission--
Oak-aged water for the thirsty beast--
That comes only with death
No one lives through 256.