Faces of two eternities keep looking at me.
One is Omar Khayam and the red stuff
⁠wherein men forget yesterday and to-morrow
⁠and remember only the voices and songs,
⁠the stories, newspapers and fights of today.
One is Louis Cornaro and a slim trick
⁠of slow, short meals across slow, short years,
⁠letting Death open the door only in slow, short inches.
I have a neighbor who swears by Omar.
I have a neighbor who swears by Cornaro.
⁠Both are happy.
Faces of two eternities keep looking at me.
⁠Let them look.