Sixty Six

Sixty six is no age, said a voice

Which only served to fill

A vacancy with emptiness

It’s no age to die that is

As if picturing the deceased

Staring at his palm

Awaiting missing change,

…surely only coppers owed

And his wife discharging

Something disguised as grief

Fur glossy, lying smooth

Now he wasn’t there

To rub her the wrong way

As they had done

Both red raw, often

Bloodied in their four walls

The mourners raked

Their numb concerns

For gems to tribute to

A man whose life

Had only gathered speed

And run away from him

Something in the way

An obstacle inside a vein

Gather upon gather

Dull resentments build

The ending shocking

And routine, a puff of

Smoke, chokes then

Dissipates as is the way