What’s the point of this
All the worry, saving up
Buy a nice casket

Cooks in the kitchen
Opinions like recipes
Wash hands and walk out

Quiet morning walk
No headphones, no fake soundtrack
Just the birds and bugs

In the coffee queue
A seventy two inch gap
Pondering my feet

I’m skilled but lazy
And my axe blade has grown dull
Rust doesn’t wash off

A cure and a curse
Oh Whisky, you’re the Devil
But I love you so

Nocturnal creatures
Fey teenagers roam the house
Foraging for snacks

The middle age spread
Eyes blurring, belly growing
A well-worn sweatshirt

Birdsong and trash truck
Two happy sounds commingle
Nature and garbage

My secrets and lies
Like barely remembered dreams
Haunt my family