Monday’s Lament [On Call]

Broken matches hall of fame.
Can you tell the blest by their name?
Grace isn’t doing all that good,
But don’t let me be misunderstood.
Libra gets killed by such a cancer:
Caduceus’ cures wouldn’t answer.
Hospice called, hospice came:
Hour and a half twas all a game.
The rain washed away the old chalk;
Father and daughter missed their last walk;
Tears are confounded with the rain;
No hugs to be ever shared again.
Be amused, now, if you will
By butterflies flittering up on the hill.
They shrink by scores from year to year:
Is it global issues as I do fear?
Witness how the Future daily arrives—
Cruelly trods on with the slow fading of lives.
Only 72 miles to get to Burnet.
Racing the impossible, yet—
Hospice called, hospice came:
Hour and a half twas all the same.

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About Kitt

Sometimes a rhyme or couplet wanders across my consciousness. So, I share it. Other times I'm a hospice social worker; others, a Dad; others, southerner, New Orleanian, cajun enthusiast, voter, and on better days, a not-too-awful-poet/rhymster. Welcome to my page. Enjoy.

Posted on September 21, 2014, in Poem. Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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