Lately you are a thick black plastic tarp
held over an open grave
with a rickety wooden extension ladder.
Newspaper evenings and darkness clings
to room corners with not a sigh or groan
from an empty denim-bottom fluffy dog bed.
To be adrift
on the green waters of melancholy....
Unfit for company, to pass time you bang
a gravedigger shovel against the side of your own head.
All the mistakes of trust --someone else's trust in you--
transmogrify into cheap-house theatre smiles.
The purple in photographs of bone cancer cells is pretty...
the hue of 1960's prom dresses... or of aged dog collars...
or of stars finger-painted by weary daycare-stalled children.
Everyone is in bed. It is now socially safe
to hand-feed nuggets of large breed lamb & rice
kibble into your whiskey-dribbling mouth.