He skims the haze of the day
like a cat seeking its food
prowling lane alleyway
to find you in bitter mood.

On your door the unwelcome guest
you would not call him to stay
with him time is a waste
he would better be shooed away.

You hate when he starts to speak
his sunburned face is a bore
must cut him short pretty quick
behind him close the door.

Like you are nine of ten
but he knows his job is done
is rewarded all his pain
if he can charm just one.

The one that ears lends
a carer who knows well
how it greatly depends
a family on one sale.

First off let me say
I've reached that ripe old age
Can I get a show of hands
Of those who have lost a friend

They are dying right and left
Losing out on their life's bet
No ones more surprised at the fact
That I haven't joined them yet

They're all whistling out a dirge
Flying off like Northern birds
Before the first snow fall
And Winter chills us all

Just keep an eye on Deaths arthritic hand
And watch for who he grabs hold next
Most likely it's someone I know
Pack them up and lay them low

Do I really need to say
I've reached the ripe old age
That all the people close to me
Have either left or are soon to leave

whispers of sea
where the cold storm
gathers in the grey
sky, and the waves
pound the shore
running back
pushing down
arching like
fiery cats,
the ache of the storm
a tearful cloud
the song of
a poem.