Monday, May 12, 2025

THE WAY OF IT

 

Somewhere a shadow

Digs my grave. He's in no hurry

But the thing gets slowly deeper.

I try to distract him, pretend

To feel sympathy. "Poor chap!

Out in such weather!" 

I offer to trade a tea-spoon

For his shovel saying

He'd be a fool to refuse

An elegant utensil, made

From genuine silver-plated tin.

When he's not looking,

I kick some dirt back in.

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