Where you had walked
before: gone past my window,
ambler down ordered roads
for thirty years of mornings,
wage yielded at tea-time weekly,
speech still in the mapways
for flat-head beer. A smoke
finished you finely, neat
as the threads you bit
from seams you sewed.
Feel murderous outrage at the point of
death,
Though wise ones know its darkness can’t be
dodged.
The saintly might’ve sinned and saved their
breath,
the whacky conserved time. Instead, they’re
lodged
above the serious few who could’ve laughed.
And D.T. looks for his father’s blessing?
Daft!
