Not so easily classified

Clickety clack sound magic fingers and, ahoy, the heft I lift reveals scenic Siena landscapes, ruby emerald pastels, lush Chianti vineyards, a framed showcase of my gothic marble ambition. But lichen always grows on the side of a tree, signals ceasing immortality; arthritic shoulders can’t bear the load, so I sit and hum my Springsteen—‘The Ghost of Old Tom Joad’:

Wherever there’s a cop feeding a tramp;
wherever there’s a president sobbing in his hands;
wherever there’s a spinster smiling at a babe
—I’ll be the vampire, sucking at the drain.*

[*not the actual lyrics]

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