The Month After

Under the table and down in the pit with out plastic
 potatoes and Joe-Joe the dove on the spit. On the
 spoons you made rhythm; I whistled the blues cos
 my throats been misused and my voice is a crack in
 the tar. In the jar is a tablet they sent in the post,
 with a pamphlet. With an order; "Take this when the
 pain gets too much!" I confess I feel nothing at all . . .
 I'm bored and you're bald, but I laughed when you
 called me the snail. My red trail runs behind me.
 I'm guilty, no secrets. You're not such a picture
 yourself--but your brown eyes I know so very well.
 They're sadder and wiser; We've finally been
 through it all. Now our time's slowly ticking away.
 Do you think there's a heaven?