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.