Poem: The Sinner’s Guide to Immortality

Whether they admit it or not
everyone is intrigued by fortune tellers
and amused by dogs hanging their heads from car windows.
As surely as fog rolls in madness and
tiptoes away from its destruction,
towns shutter
leaving stranded locals to stockpile cords of wood and
contend with the pestilent seeds of hope that
sprout
in spring
when the black dog that stayed at your side while you slept
awakens on the pillow beside your head.
And whether we have committed to memory two turtle doves
or three dozen Visigoth kings,
the untouched breakfast turns into lunch
the lamp dims.
Who could have predicted
that we wouldn’t have the time to settle an old score
before we are buried beside
a bed of coconut scented gorse.