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

“She was never any trouble.”