Death has pluck, you know, the like to sever love,
Then to show unannounced after the ruckus,
Even after so many no-shows at the theatre or club.
Death, indeed, is a tough sport, I am told,
Who plays cricket or some the sort,
Though no one really knows or asks,
“Wicket” does seem a word of choice.
But, for certain, a devil’s ouija hand
Of bridge whist, as sure as lives off
Pall Mall or Regent, as pipes a walk
In the London fog, here and there.
Yes, indeed, I would call him a chum
If he wasn’t such a cad.

Leaving a trail for
the game of **** in watery eyes
for sane surrender.

*

That was a fake turn,
when you slipped from the edge
of enduring pain.

*

Like first raindrops,
I was going to wet your brows
to write my hurt poem.

Melody
Lifting the veil
From dream world,
Remembering me
Into this body
Song bird
Gently strumming
My soul
Waking me
Into this day