Unlike the Welsh drunkard –
and I admit it’s envy that causes me to disparage
his success –
Unlike the Welsh poet –
although I sometimes wonder if more drink
would improve my poetry –
Let the reader have another glass of wine.
Unlike him –
I do wish to go gentle.
Not quite yet of course
perhaps in thirty-nine years –
which is all the poor bastard got
and may be enough time for me to write one decent line –
No raging for me.
I will slip quietly – not unaware –
even comatose I would like a curl to my hair
and a touch of mascara.
I will skip the rouge however
as a paleness to the cheek befits a quiet death.
I’m no fighter.
There will be no pleading, no fury
no cry of battle –
no cry at all, except perhaps one pretty tear
as I hear my loved ones
growing distant
whisper
“She was never any trouble.”
