Are you still there
walking the pier’s wooden boards?
Sat in your deck chair
with your wonderful theatrical frauds?
Anyone’s word counts for the number of letters in it.
Scripts thrown into the sea.
Armbands round little arms doing their bit
to keep a silent movie pianist afloat above anonymity.
The sawdust footprints
match those left in the sand.
Under a punch ‘n’ judy policeman’s helmet, each blue eye squints
as the sun shines on the open-mouthed corpse with its last laugh canned.
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Author: aprettykettleofpoetry
