My Neighbor
 

My neighbor's eyes are never full, nor ever are his lips
Devoid of any foul aspersion, bitter curl, or quip

The meter on his mother's grave, which lately he's installed
Is set to jerk him from his bed, in case her corpse is called

For when the graves disgorge to bear the saints to the Assize
He'll be the first to catch the pennies falling from their eyes

He'll stay to rent the open holes to some poor heathen schlubs,
Or maybe let to headless holdouts measured to their stubs

When the hooves of Jehu's horses hound him from his sleep,
When the final sickle through the roaring tempest sweeps,
Will my neighbor weigh his bag with only one complaint:
"Where at this late hour can I procure a can of paint?"
 

ArneHerstad©2005   May 13th
 
 



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