Old Jack

His face was a museum.

With eyes cold since Korea,

he sat at his computer and played solitaire.

His brain, growing old in his head

sent mixed messages to his jittery hand.

It could never be still,

and he was only at peace

when he slept.

It was the digestion of food

and dreams of playing in the mud.

It was there that the contrast between

inches

and bad sin

disappeared into him.