Poem Hunter
(04 October 1943 / Germany)


With only a bouquet
of dead straw flowers
in the Sicilian vase,
he wept alone,
next to his bottle,
unopened, yet.
A chill as company.

There was no memory
of having cried,
as women say,
your eyes out,
'Til now.

The doctor had,
rushed and dishevelled,
clipboard in hand,
thrown accusations
and poison arrows
at his chest.
To let him know,
third-party like,
what had been
so unfortunately
diagnosed today.

He staggered out
at last,
the corridor was misty.
Fickle spirits
saw him home,
and left him there,
to his misère.

He had forgotten
to remember
how much time
they'd said,
or had they?

Another wave
came over him,
again there was
no warning.
And, perhaps,
no valid reason.

And so,
he sat alone,
next to his
topless bottle.
And there
he cried and cried.
When it was done
and empty
he leaned
back in his chair
and died.

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Comments (1)

l am not sure, yet sounds like a hard day, easying its way into a sleep.