Lost in a Wailing Wall of shredded trees,
his anguish calls the secretary to help him find
his hidden left hand;
he is order's enemy and taxman's early death.

In some lost mind, surefooted, 
he treads a shifting dance that only lost men know,
and sees the side the tortured cannot find;
he is the guide of knowing knowledge and
misery's reward.

He was my rumpled friend
He was isolation's laughing
Enemy.

(I shall arise now, and call
the secretary
to help me find his grave.
It must be on his desk.)

©  Copyright, 2000; Malcolm Beckett