Thoughts From Someone Soon Dead

I lie here with memory fading,

Exhortation, supplication erasing themselves,

Like a marigold in a summer’s sun,

Drying out, breathing its fading breaths,

And I think “What about our coming deaths?”

A glass of red, a slice of Camembert,

But where goes my underwear?

Do they, the minister, the parish priest,

Care about my undergarments?

And the wife left behind,

Does she care? Does she mind?

Does the brother I played poker with,

Does he follow me on the table?

I am laid out on a morgue slab,

Like a fellow who failed to pay his bar tab,

Just unable to answer or respond,

To a wisp of hair or nails painted blue,

Though trust that my last thought was of you.

I am soon dust and ashes; no more.

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~ by Benji on 25 October 2015.

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