The Oldmanís math

In the early pre-dawn hours, Billieís heels on the tile floors
were like horses stampeding through the house.
Brak!, brak!, brak!, brak! up the passageway.
Brak!, brak!, brak! brak back down the corridor.
A salvo of brak!, brak!, brak!, brak! across the living room.
The metallic swish of the curtains sweeping back on their rods
like so many frenetic brooms.
Brak!, brak!, brak!, brak! to the kitchen. Brak!,
brak!, brak!, brak! to the garage door.
Brak!, brak!, Brak!, Brak!, brak!, brak!,
brak!, brak! to the washroom mirror.
The brak!, brak!, brak!, brak! Echoed in Richterís head,
jacking his sleep until itís cracking.
Richter sat up, his mouth dry with a bursting fly.
What a price was his thoughts decry.
He thought of the Oldman and
how slow he had been to respond to lifeís math.
Often wondering if he was angry at God and
hoping he was not his whole life fighting God.
After the Oldman could not get any more jobs in his own country,
due to cheap, no insurance, nor tax immigrant labor,
he did not immediately do the math.
The Oldman was angry, always angry.
Even as his health hit rolling black outs and shopping falls,
the Oldman did not see the divine math.
Ego, strength and angriness the blinding path.
In life it was wise to avoid attracting wrath.
Richter remembered the many ambulance rides and
the sudden, unexpected, emergency dashes,
as darkness attacked in several rushes.
He had done the math from early, right up to lifeís shaft.
Richter considered life and where it was going and,
where his life was heading.
Were people just daily treading water!
He rejoiced that the Oldman before his last breath,
had seen and done the heavenly math.
In sum, escaping from the tribulation wrath,
as to the Living Vine he was graft, completing his lifeís math.
Richter looked up, knowing the Oldman was at peace,
free from his bodyís earthly lease and,
he anticipated he would be recalled from the field of battle one day,
to his eternal release.
Brak!, brak!, brak! brak! brak!, brak! brak!, brak!
out the side door, and Billie was no more.
That was it for this morningís score,
afterwards it would become household lore.

CI-359620103 Knight Truelove Poems

Comment On This Poem ---
The Oldmanís math