On Ascher

Not for lack of pride,
But perhaps sympathy
Such artistry is made
Of constructed charm
From those who bow and scrape
And lick the floor
Or talk behind their hands
With loud voices
Lesser braggarts
Fighting to over-voice
One who had something
To brag about
And dearly
Deeply
Wanted to be admired
Wanted to be loved
Even while each was grasped tight
In either fist
Before passing;
Endearing and
Slightly abrasive.