October 13, 2013


After the last wife has died,
After the last woman has left in tears of frustration,
I shall sit, bent over, body and face
Not wrinkled as waterlogged fingers, but rather,
Dessicated and shrivelled as a raisin, all juice gone,
Mind crumpled up and thrown away in the trash,
Brain deflated and erratic as a dried-out walnut
To be packed away, hidden away in the cold, unthinking, in stasis,
In the hope that a Springtime of Science will have me take life again and sprout
Up, up, into something a thousand times greater than I was before, or am now.

Published: Ambit 211, UK, January 2013

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