Musings #63 - Two Poems in Tiger's Eye 2017


LINGER sounds inviting,

a place to enjoy a glass of wine,

good food and conversation.

We want to talk about what matters,

we want to talk about death.

Write me a script

for a life like Helen’s –

living long and loved.

A gradual decline. Then, suddenly,

in three days


On the brick wall, the name

appears to be missing

a letter at the start.

I ask the waiter. Turns out we’re in

what used to be the OLINGER


And the dark brown water jugs

on all the tables? Apothecary jars

like ones once filled

with embalming fluid.

Short of Helen’s way, write me

a script for a pill to take

when I’m ready to die

though my sick, old body holds on.

Give me that semblance of control,

give me that choice.

I’ll pick up the tab.


The gray moth hovers – wings pressed against

the window, eavesdropping on young men’s

secret songs, leaving dust prints on glass.

Their lyrics are a gathering storm backlit

by the setting sun. Suddenly rain spills down –

as if sound could throttle clouds.

Seeping beneath the surface, fresh rhymes

search for the face of God –

low, at the bottom of things.

The cat purrs beneath the sill, tail flicking

to a metronome beat. The moth, damp-winged,

impaled on an extended claw.