Oh, My Word...

On second thought, no ... his words,
every one, delivered in staccato
bursts of blazing, energetic
self-absorption.  Never did I
imagine, setting out on this walk,
experiencing a kaleidoscopic
delivery of colourful words, anecdotes,
fond memories and firm convictions.
None my own through original
thought, yet clinging fiercely to
my mind, eyes crossed toward that
unwavering tongue, that smile,
that air of familiarity, for I am
become a sudden confidante.
Accosted and attention claimed
by the small, quivering Jack Russell
held for its own aggressive
protection, he unrolled for my
appreciation the story of his life,
his widowed, pensioned mother's,
his Welsh childhood and boarding
school, his unwillingness to pay
taxes to support the royal family's
indolent lifestyle and his departure
for this country when he was but
forty-five, forty years previously.
This hale, well-set, gregarious man
all of 85?  No, arithmetic off, he
is a mere 72.  Where was I? he muses,
then recalls and buries me again in 
reminiscences, none mine, all
Ken's.  Ken ye no Ken?  'Nice day'
did it.  Garrulous, was he then?
Did I not warn you?  I forgot.  You
owe me one, for that timely rescue.