That's The Stuff

Twisted but wistful stares

Under the co-admirers' pissed-off glares

Of them he is entirely unaware

But they really don’t matter.

He lists, stops, moans

Never wished that he could be less alone

Drags the crimson flesh to bone

When his thoughts don’t scatter.

There is something in his regards

He takes no fall too soft or hard

Memorized the names of the boys from Scotland Yard

But hasn’t met her.

He drinks in silence and then he lies

Spends cash on the last of the supplies

Expects nothing grander than his own demise

Or, at least, nothing better.

With friends like these

Who needs amenities

I got the feeling I could never please

Or say thank you enough

But grace, good God, that’s the stuff.

July 23