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Beer matts
Stack them
Under my leg
Fix me
I’m broken
Fix me
I beg
I wobble
I tilt
Your hope in me wilts
You leave me
You’re gone
Forever
Too long
One of my many poems written from the perspective of an inanimate object. The poem is untitled as it is left to the reader to guess which inanimate object’s perspective the poem is written from.
What we often fail to see
during a time of sorrow,
is that nothing in life but death is certain,
especially tomorrow.

So hold on to life with all your mite,
make every second count:
“She lived a life of no regrets!”
I want to hear them shout.

Beyond the fields of poppies
you will therefore see me skip,
and if you hear a concerning noise
oh, that’s just my hip!

For I’m now old my bones are weak,
but thrills I do still seek.  
You’ll find me in the bingo hall,
Not once, but twice a week!
Inspired by the recent death of my grandmother.

— The End —