POETRY IN MOTION
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EPITAPH Don't weep when you read this (IF you read this!) it was written in fun - and I wrote it about 20 years ago but just found a copy of it today. He was only popping down to Sainsbury's to get something for dinner. Just a five minute ride. And he died Swerving to avoid a child. They say death would have been quick, He wouldn't have felt much pain As he hurtled through the shop window. How often did he stop at that corner shop For fags and fifties. The unhurt child, Cried tears Of fear And innocence bewildered In an anguished mother's arms. The bike, a concertina'd wreath, Lay beneath An articulated lorry Carrying Corn Flakes. (He couldn't breakfast enough). A red And dead CZ. He entered the corner shop At 70 miles an hour In a shower Of glass, Slid along the counter And rang up the till. He bounced off the freezer cabinet And squashed the sliced bread. Dead. He ended without style Beneath a pile Of videos. Nasty. In the corner shop They still Keep beside the till Two fifty pence pieces. On his grave A bunch of dandelions Sprout from the neck Of a dented Red Petrol tank. On his headstone A fang of the frog Is the epilogue. Elsewhere his typewriter gathers dust, His poems curl at the corners. His undiscovered masterpiece Laughs at itself. His socks stand in the corner And the world goes on. Death is killing us off. Poetry Ad-Free Upgrades Vote for this poem
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