People are chairs,
Faces in blinks sink deeper and
Rails on sleepers, life
Moves on. A dead-end song.
And on. And on. And
On the third day after being pronounced dead
They laid him low without
A cushion for his head and as the onlookers
Looked, the sad man said “Amen”
Amen — Yeah, men
Life is short; even where it’s long
It is short like Mahela’s bat
Every time he’s run out, no doubt
He feels next time he should use a longer bat.
The greater comfort is to make myself believe
That I’m being loved and cared for.
The relief in life is when that familiar voice
Makes me feel that there is a subtlety in choice
Like in one of Joyce’s stories about morning glories.