his reflection below in a shallow puddle
instead of his own face battered beaten grey old
light plays tricks on his eyes so he sees a young man
elegant clean-shaven with the Handsome Demons
washed-up back in the day an amateur drummer
aspiring full of hope to make music like notes
left as an equation on a cluttered blackboard
killing time an old man waiting for death to suck
in his breath as a cat sits on top of his chest
never certain when life comes to an abrupt end
guessing if he worries it comes to no purpose
indeed a defunct band with an ironic name
nobody understood way back in the 80s
to fast-forward the film of a life abandoned
haunted for thirty years while bandmates learned music
entertaining others with professional style
rain falls over his hat and overcoat he walks
arguing with himself over his past choices
in no way affecting any level of change
no Mr. Gabidar couldn't care less again
Mirrors found in puddles taunt Mr. Gabidar
raving mad lunatics walk the streets in the rain
Gathering up his thoughts to write a novella
about the Minotaur trapped inside a small boy
but his lack of control as his own consciousness
in the growing body of an immigrant's son
dawns in time in the mind of this ancient creature
as he faces his past while he acquires language
reason creates logic to overcome past dreams
since Mr. Gabidar writes only poetry
ever so poorly that this work of prose fiction
even weaves tapestry slowly over these warped pages
shuttles threads of the weft in the shed of the loom
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