He’s accomplished nothing,
his life a watered downs success,
a “skidder” was it?
His hands filled and emptied
in times unrelenting passing.

The smartest man in the room
-the pin his satin lapel sports.
A cut glass vernacular
affected by a crude Kingstonian drawl.

He amongst his Muji décor,
pours Oolong tea in a sole cup.
His community an artificial complex
continuing his saga of solitary emancipation.

He’s retired from business’ vitesse
“They’re all idiots” was it?
He the smartest
man in the room.

His ivory eyes cuts
at his story of Trench Town
independence,
impeded by his familial complacency.

Ambition and legacy were his conduit
to his desolate finale,
his thirst alienating him
from his loves.

Within his magnolia walls
he sips his Oolong tea,
the air still, cold, fresh, empty.
“It’s not a choice,”
was it?