Lear had no grandchildren to aggrandize

him, fondle him with kisses, no photos kept

in a drawer, to convince him he’s alive:

time slices, filial fawning, thin as thought.

What denouement but fall into default

on a limited income of forced love

in a world where torment is the leaden rule

and dog eats dog and push dumbs down to shove.

In times as perilous, pitiless as these,

why shouldn’t an old man run wild, insane,

without a hovel near to hide his head

against assessments and the hurricane?

A fallen world like that of frantic Lear

in Florida who rode his wheelchair out

off a balcony. The condo swept him up

so quick he never even left a blot.