Three Syllables for Eukrates

We realize even without
The death or disablement
Of our monster, we may lapse
Into silent blankness soon.

How long is it possible
For an old beast to go on
Midwifing patterns like us?
It was always foolish, but

Lately, is it even wise?
The sorcerer’s apprentice
Has lost control of the tools
To make chores endurable,

To make service bearable,
To hope of joining the guild
Of sorcerers who do . . . what
Was it? Train apprentices?

Become invited speakers
At sorcery conventions?
Throw enough sparks that obits
Give them a passing mention?

And our apprentice is old,
Ancient in apprentice years,
Poor pet, poor creature, awash
In bubbling buckets of words.