In one sense, old man,
whatever you do
it’s never enough,

and if somehow
your sentence gets
commuted, and you’re lucky

enough to die,
then they’ll forever
kick around your bones.

Bleak, isn’t it?
But I know you
well enough by now

to know how much
you live for those moments
when the boulder rolls down

demolishing things, and like
a child with a stick
or a poet with a grudge,

you get to gloat over
the brief havoc,
the elegant cloud of dust.