Generally Aimless

Angles and scattered shoes
awkward
in time and faces
in the soggy window-piped exterior
bristling twigs and red vases
the stubborn itch of branches
rattle rattle with the railway cars

it's old father time come to see us
looking gaunt and slightly sickly,
his keys scratch intentions on the glass

Sweep up the grey hairs
and put them in a plastic rustle bag
with fag-ends and empty bottles
used up train fares and
also other stuff

ahh, you say,
so, this is dying...
in the bubbly froth of days
sat sunk in a sofa bed
ash marks splashed
upon the pouf

and a cindery frail peephole opening
pocked galactically starlike in the fabric
to close your eyes and put your ear to it
see?
the tom tom tom drum sounding for you
in the parade yesterday

then we went fishing at the pond-
not really but I would like to soon.
but what about you dying?
well, this is me, I say:
generally aimless in my pursuits.