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 . . .