Milton comes in. There is little poetry left in the man. He's shoeless. Toothless. His face traduced and trampled. The cracks on his face are dry. Saltiness settles in the hollows under his eyes. The dead see, too.
Between tending the plants, cutting back the roses, cruising the art marts online and on foot, and catering parties from Bel Air to Malibu, who has time to toot his own horn about those yummy sausages?