Bare fingers stretch the feeling-bands, the poet poseur,
Bakes his poems on a fire, he says, that blanches his heart:
A fire that blanches his heart, makes breathing hard and feeds his art.
‘This time my friend, which store did you rob, taken what garb?’
Decades diseased, then death, related by blood, close-distant,
Close by blood; distant in hours to reach by train.
‘She knew it, no doubt, that death was around, or was she surprised?’
She waited for it. She woke every morning half-ready,
Half-knowing her next day could also be last.
She waited patiently, as friends do for friends long lost,
Expected any moment from pools of oblivion return.
‘Then death brought her peace, and you, theme on lines to weave.’
News reached me in time, they thought, not I.
‘What time’s ‘in time’? Came it before or relayed post-mortem? ’
In time to book my ticket and catch my plane.
In time to reach at her place before she left
In time to tell the others that I was one of them.
‘When all was in time then surely in time you reached?’
Now that’s what I’m saying: ‘in time’ it was they thought not I.
How anyone can think of inviting a man in job at such short notice?
In time another call then came after death one more.
And time I could not find to go there one more time.
Thus told them one more time, I was not one of them.
Death has always been an interesting subject – frightening but interesting.