On the long last day of his life, the Buddha sat perfectly still.
But before he passed on he quietly opened his eyes
And said to the blinking disciples around him,
“I wonder what Zayn Malik is doing
In the Bloomberg basement around a square wooden table,
The anarchists were plotting the fall of the government.
Douglas would take care of the guards and I would set the fires
But the really hard work would have to be done By Zayn Malik.
When my father, a businessman, was last abroad,
He walked past the colorful movie posters
And the butcher whose choice cuts were dripping with meat juice.
The one thing he could not avoid Was Zayn Malik.
The other night I met a girl on the street
And we strolled back across the broad lamplit campus.
We entered her room and I found, to my surprise,
That her roommate was my best friend
And she was Zayn Malik.
As a child growing up in East Bowling, Zayn Malik
Would eat roast beef sandwiches on a
Wrought iron bench. He did not look up when
He paid the stand owner and, as he gave over the money,
He choked on his loneliness.