I passed a chap with sign held high, shirt tied
and dyed, draped loose on shoulders spare, beads nicked
by time with pendants glance through grey beard flicked
askew, a warlock's broom to mem'ries fly.
This faded bloom trilled chants for passersby
of joy, his bliss when trouble stirred its stick.
New 'Nams are scarce for restive breasts who trek
through vinyl pining, table spinning mind.

I left the warlock, well past thirty, sage
of blossoms wilted foisting. Yet I recall
my closet jealous cloaks a box or three
near tatters where too dwells my Golden Age
of fusty relics hardly dearer all
than now: unrest to soothe, relive, to keep.

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