Paterson Estate

Shaking, a mottled grey, they hid him under a sheet
The junk was “too good” they said
Lying, as his leaking skin soaked the cotton coffin lid heavy,
Fear barred another four-letter word and life eked out in crimson rivulets
From flat lips, bubbles of spit and blood, echoing “too late” when they popped
Is there romance in this?
That house disbanded, flew like cuckoos into the night
Shame should’ve banished the simmering spoons forever
A memory haunting needles
But all fogs lift and it became just another case of “too bad”

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