Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Dispatches for the Colonial Office

        Why Do Widows Give Me Their Late Husbands’ Clothes?

When old men die their widows give me their clothes
(The old men’s clothes; not the widows’; let’s not get weird)
Nice pullover shirts, expensive blazers, everything goes
And ties to the 1970s geared

I am as Bob Newhart lost in an age
Of tattered tees and designer sneaks
Hardly the attire of a wise old sage
One of the last sartorial antiques

When old men die their widows give me their clothes
I look quite natty in them, I suppose

(The old men’s clothes, not the widows; let’s not get weird)

Relaxing on my bed,
Listening to the music,
Suddenly, my cheeks felt some tears shed.
A watery shed out from my eyes,
Feeling the moisture and finding themselves red.

My cheeks asked my eyes, "What's the matter?
Why the mess?"

Then eyes said, "Ears are the culprit, they keep listening to something gloomy on repeat, that's why the shed."

Then ears replied in annoyance,
Stating its innocence, "It's the brain which is the problem."

Brain interrupted the ears' say and said, "It's not me, it's the heart which is on the loose.
For he is deep in grief, for he misses someone close. he is out of control and confused.
It is his longings which are causing you trouble.
Unapologetic heart keeps up the rubble."

46 years
What do you get
Your way past old
Your pants don’t seem to fit
Your always cold
Like day old bread
Your beginning to mold
Broken Hips
Brittle Bones
46 years
**** that’s old

We danced in the rain
         Laughing away so much pain
               A good friend we lost