It’s a dance of distrust,
a way of dusting for fingerprints.
He’d done a few stints as a mover,
a few as a shaker.
The muckrakers had a field day.
Life has a strange way of sashaying
out of focus when you most need clarity.
The column topples.
The colossus drifts.
Fragments of a gift look you
in the eye and shake you down
to sky blue truisms.
And then the hunt commences…