Leer's fool in Montana

​“Where’s my fool!” cried Leer. 
     Your fool, King, dabbles with me
Seeing I lacked a fool
     Other than the one I am,
     And who is fool to himself?

Well, perhaps a fool
     Holed up in cold Montana,
Imaging fools
     And Muses who will amuse
     In hours of quiet darkness.

A Muse is a fool
     When truth is told, naked truth,
And Leer sees himself
     Not as a king, but a man,
     Whose truly been too foolish.

I sniff my thin wrist--
     “It smells of mortality.”  
And now I realize--
     With the help of my king’s fool--
     Should have been wise before old.

“O toothless old man,
     How long must I endure you?
I was your mirror
     And yet you refused to look
     Long and hard at what you see.”

Why not fly down, fool,
     To southern California,
Enjoy sun and warmth,
     Leaving an old man alone
     Somewhere in cold Montana.  


—27 January 2020  Mozart’s birthday