The Curmudgeon

YOU'LL COME FOR THE CURSES. YOU'LL STAY FOR THE MUDGEONRY.

Sunday, February 07, 2016

The Dust Settles

The blackened bag gapes out a toothless grin;
Soft groceries protrude, strain out dark ends.
The carrier, though little mirth attends,
Widens its smile and cannot hold them in,
And waits for finer fissions to begin.
Through spattered light the modest dust descends;
The dry, white drizzle still serenely wends,
Pale droplets of disintegrated skin.

You would not know, to hear their peace resound,
How noisily the offal pieces played:
How they complained, and dragged themselves around,
And shopped, and shed so much of what has made
This quiet epitaph which moves and lies
Amid the mumbled elegies of flies.

Gleetie Moocher

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