The knowledge

*+the knowledge+*
The knowledge the old man gasped
He was brown as teak and knotted
Remaining sparse white hair wild on his head
The knowledge he croaked out
Obviously trying to pass on some wisdom
Perhaps a guilty secret in his head
Maybe location of Maltese Falcon
Whatever it was meant nought to me
On minimum wages to mop the floors
Strip beds of used sheets for the laundry
And other manner of menial tasks
I had no interest in babble incoherent
Hoarse whispers of the knowledge
No longer appealed to me
I had given up on dreams and hopes
Instead watched the clock as I shuffled about
His frail white liver-spotted hand reached for me
Almost relying on gravity to bridge the gap
The knowledge impatiently he breathed
His feeble grasp unable to hold hem of my shirt
Whatever knowledge was or would be
I could very plainly see
Would not serve to save him now
Crossed threshold to Death's waiting room
Soon his sheets for laundry would be free
And I turned my ipod up again
And followed my mop out of his room
Ignoring his no more audible pleas
Of the knowledge he had for me.