The smile on your mouth was the deadest thing
Alive enough to have the strength to die.
Windows, willows, gray clouds, a lake,
A landscape sketched by Thomas Hardy,
Heartache’s bald-headed ambassador,
Who wondered what life’s fuss was for.
Yet why so glum? The willows wave,
As if to welcome the scudding clouds.
This vacay cottage sports a tin roof.
Pounding percussion is in store.
Pull down the shades, shut down Pandora.
Listen to the rhythm of the falling rain,
Telling you just what a fool you’ve been
Groaning and bemoaning tick tocks away . . .