Left-Overs Poem by Morgan Michaels

He wanted to retire to Samos, he said, with enough eye-drops to last a year, and have his social security wired there, direct deposit. Samos of the yellow wine. Wasn't Anacreon from there? And Pythagoras? Yeh, the wine was yellow. And tasted like honey- something about the bees, it was- they were huge and fuzzy and bent the flowers down when they lit. There, he would let his hair go grey. The sun would salve his aching bones and turn his skin leather-dark. He would sit amongst squash flowers and forget about Time- the best revenge, finally, and perhaps become a legend. Every day, on the beach, he would see the waves rise and crash prettily on the sand. A wave, like a life, had a trajectory. And he would watch the birds. And nod....