She said cinnamon knocked on your door all through the night, unable to listen for your visitor. You never answered, we think because crimes of seclusion will reckon your ability to mimic the billiard balls you so enjoyed sleeping on. Winter storms hid safely in your cubic span of grace. No one stopped loving you, however long we pounded on your door, hounded your poor. Heaven thought it had you until yellowed nails and dirty heels abruptly sent you swirling, through the tubs that sent you here, into future orgasms passed like hot potatoes among memories you cannot kill. You saw how women looked at him, with sadness and adoration. His words drooled as foul honey from his lips, belying the myth that honey cannot go bad. His honey rotted, barely spreadable on the softest romance laid out for love. You found his monotonous talk a horror. But it worked well to placate and smooth ambitions of the women who pursued him. They captured every word in the steel traps of their minds: his repeated description of a napkin he used only to wipe his nose; dimly jubilant references to his loving mother; kinetic friction among the nearby eating utensils helped orchestrate a stringy flop of one of your overrated starlets, who sat listening, frowning, earwax nearly bursting from her canal. The night ended as flavorless talcum filled the room with inexpungable mention of his unearned privilege. Does it stir you still? To this day, 47 years into your epiphany that no migraine goes unabused? You’ve had too much to say about rubber kings and sunken fortunes. Pretenders clamored for your influence, limiting themselves only by plasticity and extensibility in their promise to make you whole. In a moment when dogs bark unexpectedly a wind of the encounter slips into claps of recognition. Squirrels hurtle to the ground, rats rise like conquerors, toy snakes and broccoli sprout from the armpits of humans as conversations strain. They say all ugliness has its antidote. Where is yours?