Mr. Burns

Later in life, as much a mess As a disorderly garage Each tool truant to its place Lured away by carelessness: Oily rags of memory slouching Slack over the edge of a name, Sockets of knowledge Rolling beneath a table, An engine of wit rust-caked, grass smothered, Lying idle in its crusted cleverness, And how the son aspires to ratchet the machine: Welds those reminisces, cranks Down the loose logic’s bolt, Solders the tangles of wiry Moods that once strayed thanks To the freedom of weeds, the jolt Now sewn together ordinary, Deposited in banks. He smiles at the repaired dolt His form newly throttled, gear-y, Shelves him next to an ancient Cog that’s been painted The color of a lost sun That sputters and coughs through a gray horizon.