By: Allan Lake

My adult children live far away.
Their mother remarried. Dead rels
ring bells while those living send annual
BD greetings on F-book that I don’t Like.
Bravo. Bingo. Bangshangalingo.
Would not change a thingo, Ringo.
Old hometown may look the same
but I never return to check. Busy
retraining as survivor while final
plot awaits my pen at cemetery.
Narrative-to-date lacked direction,
plan, purpose. Character development
hodgepodge depended on whether one
bothered to plod on, come illumination.
Snail locus slid towards promissory pension
but then came confirmation that unstable
things like characters, nature, an entire
blue planet could expire without encore.
Meaningfulness, you elusive/irresistible
brat, take another bow as devotees cry
for more and throw up those costly
dead red roses.