Epitaph.Not next year, not the next one, Not the year after that. But agesFrom here,Clad in love stained sleeping bags,Dying with feet wrapped in endlessShirts and pillow cases,Crumbling with 99 flakes clutched Between thumb and palm, drippingYellow cream from twig fingers,Basking our white haired chests on Green grassed parks under purpleSkies. Laughing over coffee after Bath tubs of coffee have passed Through our guts. Huddled, lonely,Under heaped clothes, here lay us...
-Alan Martin
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