the very old man

old by many standards

but not by all

has skinny arms

mostly skin over bone

with dark veins

fat with blood, dark blue

and tentative, where a needle’s

prick will send

it flowing outward

like a slow river

as if searching for another source.

the blood knows

it has no chance as the very

old man knows.

a little can, red and white, of french onion soup

will go untouched,–– will outlive

the very old man, most likely.

he has little taste for french onion soup.

he’ll show-up in other places

nearly like in a rerun, another him so to speak

but only slightly so.

soon the very old man will have his dinner

in a bowl on a table without history.

he remembers the history of dinner tables

set for more than one while he eats and then he’ll die.