Sig went to work at 8 years old
When his father died. He ended up drilling
Artesian wells, and selling, when I met him, Ramblers,
Which made him to me a God.
He was someone no one ever said anything of,
Even when he died he left no mark
But a low-grade pity: "nice guy ... ineffectual ... always drunk,"
But a wicked sense of humor shot through
His ghoulish spectacles to today, with a look
That was neither amusement nor anger
But something higher, about the logic
That seems so cruel the way it rules us
With too little room to squirm: Jaw dropped in awe
Like a giddy mathematician at how flawless
Is the law, how instantly it goes from unknowable to obvious.
