It took a while to make it clear.

The cold weather, and the fire

he used to alleviate it

were almost gone, even

before any clarification had been achieved.

But now, without even moving

from his chair he knew

that the box of chocolates on the table

was no decoration, but a gift

from the spirit of abstract


made material in order

to eat away his ability to survive

another day, another incisive blow,

and here he was, as degenerate

as those he was so quick to demean,

fallen down into the abyss.


But now, at least, he was aware

that all the pretty bowls

and the temptations they contained

could actually be held off

another hour, another day,

and it would even be

his choice, his decision,


a spit in the eye of the devil

who sat opposite him,

and had given him that box,

to whom he could now say, you see,

I don’t give a damn;

It’s my life,

and I can do with it as I please