Pilfering bristles, wriggling joy, flitting blithely from table top to counter,
Folsey the filcher -- A fornight dead.
"Too much, too soon" they pronounced.
The procession silenced, prostrate at Folsely entombed.
Survived by but a single unbutton.
And his memory trickles like Celestial torture,
Or dissipates --like quiet, vacant labor-- into the linoleom
To disquiet the thoughts of a lonely Visigoth,
Heart sunken at the sight of an even number of toothpicks,
A thimble's worth of tickles no more.
"Theo!" Her rancid voice rives his reverie.
Supper of swampy Hamburger Helper and dirty dishes.
The mind folds and unfolds the scamp's memory,
Smoothing over the furrows of Folsey's likeness,
Hand sadly, soapily circumambulating.
"'Nother cuppa'?" "Why certainly."
Mid-day tea, Theo wary of his guest,
Leif fresh from pagan lands glances askant,
Fidgets in his chair, deploys a smile regarding no one:
He hardly knew the little guy.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment