You are eating honey with chopsticks.
The honey is (of course) slipping off of them and
Landing on your Santa Claus face.
It crystalizes the bleach-white hairs in an amber-like fashion.
They are enveloped and suspended in the golden goo.
I tell you that you have honey in your beard.
You chuckle- your desert lips part to reveal
Three oasis teeth in a vast landscape of
Tongue and gums and space.
Your face folds on itself indefinitely.
It is a skin skyscraper.
You are pitifully old.
But your eyes, your
Eyes are the carnival.
They are rollercoasters and
Neon lights and summer nights and
Cotton candy. I envy those eyes.
I offer you a napkin.