I can imagine people on
the street stopping then
reading all about me in
cloud white, sky backing.

My date of birth, which
changed many times as
indeed did my name, I've
only got a portion of fame.

Outside is unkempt gutters
overladen with roof silt and
Crows droppings, weeds,
wheelie bins laden with bottles.

The letter flap in the door is
wedged open with sun faded
missives from Gas, Electricity
and Water Board warnings.
  
What really gets them is
that according to statistics
I am a posthumous poet
but of no consequence.

Ryan O'Leary 1951 - 2019
Lived here 2001 - 2018
   Vegetarian - Lyricist
    Failed Poets Society.

                    <>

               Epitaph

Gone back to de-compose
what took him a lifetime
        to orchestrate