When the distance between senior moments

began shrinking like the padding between

vertebrae, and every song was lament

for the good old days in paradise green,

now lost in a polluted grey, three kings

(actually closet anti-monarchists),

summoned by a flash of heavenly bling,

invested in a baby start-up Christ,

born to revolutionize everything

(although to those outside the loop it would

appear pretty much the same: the killing,

the stealing, the boredom, the threadbare good).

Wise, they saw what their brokers hadn’t seen:

This child a fallen market would redeem.