The Acquaintance

I met a man
who spoke in tones of old.
Who dressed in robes of gold.
Who ate with bread of mold.
Whose tongue was spliced twofold.
Whose beard was all but deforested.
He sang me songs, and slept me stories of his home.
"A wintry-washed willow where women white with weight wait
for men to come. For men to come. That is home.
Away on some range somewhere, where my fears and my
robschneiderlopes fray."

That is home.

I met a man today,
and that man was