Stop All the Clocks: Second Elegy
Let Zuckerberg's brainchild go mute;
Let Harvard sophomores stop being cute;
Let pizza-parlours lose their dough,
The grass-banked Charles dry up its flow.
Dive-bars on Causeway Street, close down.
Rose-petals, wither. Summer leaves, turn brown.
Skies, grow dark as a grunge-band's mood:
Young buskers, pause and sit and brood.
Priest, talk no more of hell and sin.
Used car salesman, efface that grating grin.
O politician, quit your spiel.
My friend lies dead. Bow down and kneel.
I've thought of sending her a text.
But her fierce heart's stopped beating. Christ, what next?
I've wept a Black Sea ten miles deep:
There's nothing I can do but weep.
Her shoulder's cold. I cannot lean.
We won't chat on the phone till 2:15.
Her eyes are locked against the sun:
The days I laughed with her are done.
Poetry by Thomas DeFreitas
Read 188 times
Written on 2018-08-07 at 09:50
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