Tabernacled in his night time
abode, the old man recites some
poetry he learned by heart when
he’d yet to find a taste for rum,
and lived amongst those sober men
who’d set aside their call for rhyme.

Word-perfect, though a little slurred,
lines learned for the sake of learning
fill the shack in a rum-bass tone.
Faint falls the light of peace returning.
Solitary, but not alone,
he syllables night - word on word.