The Talk

The plague children exude is curiosity,
To which we have grown
Tragically immune.

Once I drank with the scholar.

A cup of coffee, for my moments.

The grave would stall his jaw years from now,
But he would still jabber on
In the notes and lectures of his students.

The fiend.

I begged him to reconsider
The destiny he was giving us,

As he condensed

The volumes of the past
Into the soundbites of tomorrow,

For the sake of his pupil
Who could not be made to read.

He shook his head,
The reluctant criminal,

Condemned to reveal what should be
Discovered not in mass process
But in single exploration.

He took a sip, then threw a book into the streets,
Asking me what he should do.

I watched the pages surrender
To the mangling caress of a tire.

In Autumn, the old men are hungry to be read, he said.
Better they be gently bitten than forgotten altogether.

My friends, will you trim down even these notes,
Begging for lighter fare?
After my passing, who will you be?

The price of knowledge is struggle and memory,
The serpent who is the rose.

I staggered away shaken,
Afraid to concede.