176 words
Rumour Mill
Rumours may have reached you of
my imminent demise.
They’re largely true, the eyes
of Don Quixote’s every love
look down and almost see my flask
of wine, beer, whisky, rum,
fuel that helped me come
this far, where bells now lift my mask.
May cancer not say otherwise,
dead too in the coffin,
a lump that hurt often.
Soon we will sever all our ties;
re-enter mother’s womb
there where you see a tomb.
Wife
It’s true that I’d indulged:
the sweetness of her lip
and thigh that love divulged—
my hand upon her hip.
It’s true our three sons feared
my words and not my whip.
A poet, so I reared
them all: to hear the rip
of verbs, the weight of nouns,
loved by the dew and sun.
Faded now, her gowns
are lost and weigh a ton.
My three sons lift me from
the hospice sofa bed.
They tell me that she’s glum,
her hand upon my head.
Upon the sill a dove
or crow affirms our love.
20 February 2017
The post "Rumour Mill" & "Wife" first appeared on Counter-Currents.