Commotion Lotion by Patricia Walsh

Shaved grass sucks the place dry

of rubbish and general wantonness,

picking butts from the ground

and smoking them, stunting your growth

and pockets, embracing sharpness for a while.

 

I held it close, and now I let it go.

Unwittingly, holding for dear death

what is not meant for me, a dismal creature

promised to another, supple bonds of love

on a better man, hating my actions, end of.

 

A public kiss does wonders

at pain of exclusion, I regret my actions

apologies fail to pass muster, no trust

imparted again, at pain of regret

no longer at the cutting inside edge.

 

A hearse muddles slowly by

the driver hard done by repeatedly, never surmises

once on his loss, hardened by circumstance

“It’s a job, after all”, but what if it was me

moving slowly, stuck in the parameters of a cheap box?

 

People will then regret what they’ve done,

formulate theories of my demise.

Free food at short notice, wine the same

the pretty manicured graveyards gorge its feast

but not closure, poisoning atmospheres forever.

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