Inching Into Madness, His Old Wife Still Sees Certain Things With Perfect Clarity

Poem By Frank Fagan

He's dull as dribble; when he speaks,
he reeks; his hair is falling out
in clumps. He's swag-bellied and sway-
backed. His rig hangs upside
down like a bat.
But he does
his chores, and ignores
my curses, and the other women
leave him alone.

Comments about Inching Into Madness, His Old Wife Still Sees Certain Things With Perfect Clarity

niceky written Frank
this reminds me of Ivor Cutler. that is a very good thing.


Other poems of FAGAN

Contra Commas

Bent
spent
down-
cast

Riverside

I got your message from I know not where
but there was trouble on my phone. I heard
just this: breakfast…tugboat…lemon…click,
followed by a static hiss. (I, too, am, at my best,

Dementia

Her madness was mere notion then.
From behind our papier-mâché masks

we watched impassive as it grew.

Take It From Horace

Take it from Horace,
who long ago warned us
not to paint a dolphin in a forest,
nor a wild boar disporting on a wave.

Fellow Travelers

A mouth like the gorge
of Echo
led a wandering sky-blue
eye