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

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.

by Frank Fagan

Other poems of FAGAN (14)

Comments (2)

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