Creative Coping

That skull there on

The pillow,

One two three we

Heave him up,

Belch,

One two three we

Let him down, down,

Death bubbles in his

Guts,

Fiddles the clockwork

In his heart.

A nappy smothers

Paper skin and knees hover, angling,

Buzzards above the

Wan skeleton, barely

Worth the fuss.

His eyes are lidded

And the curtain’s shut

But for the odd crack

Of Pain and Cricket,

Outside.

In they come, ‘The family’,

He mouths and seems to say,

As he lifts bone to

Palm, before the bridge

Breaks and his life flows

Off, prisoner no more,

Away.