I write this verse with every digit crossed,
but if Death is some hooded scythe-wielder,
whose touch can render hottest breath to frost

and turns our best laid capers even colder,
well, if he strolled into our living room
to point his white-as-Finnish-dandruff finger,

our Saturday evening, spent in at home,
with only some repeats or Take Me Out
to watch on TV. Still, this tedium

is but the brittle shell we wear without
his touch would only pierce my brittle skin—
there ain’t no scythe that’s sharp enough to cut

into this slow-cooked happiness within.


2 Comments (+add yours?)

  1. peter litton
    Jan 22, 2012 @ 15:00:45

    Grief…I had to read all that other stuff to get the idea at the end.
    I think the conjoined words of Saturday night and television are a perfect definition of tedium.
    “As white as Swedish dandruff” much better than snow.
    I like the idea of an inner-self and an outer-self.


  2. peter litton
    Jan 22, 2012 @ 18:51:45

    Whoops… I meant Finnish dandruff, although I suppose all Scandinavian dandruff is the same.


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