In a world where there’s much happening
I got him tulips
Freshly plucked from his yard
Tied with a pretty string
Kept it on his grave

Since he’s gone
There’s not much that’s happening
Me, an old armchair and my brood
With wilted cigarettes and –
Under consumed but over needed pills

So,
Here I sit
And brood my remaining days – aloof
And bitter.

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