Like that unprecedented day
the neighbour died, and I obliged
by carving the charm on a slip of cedar
tucking it under his tongue where he lay
linen-wrapped and bolstered in crimson
his necktie knotted the way he fancied.

Turning her brazen key
Frau Schadenfreude roused him early
cool, unruffled brought cornflakes and coffee
(his favourite start) with bacon ends
and soft boiled egg.

“What happened to the blood that tells?”
by sworn report our neighbour’s first clear
utterance on waking.
He gave then some accounting
of penis bones in coons and weasels – warming
to the topic (“Not broccoli but baculi”)
popping the cedar chip out like a tongue
to reinforce his point from time to time.

As butterflies pursued their usual
havoc on the lawn the company mocked
and mowed: “Does God forget?”
“Are nucleotides part of the binding to Prudence?”
Subtle as the sun at cloudless noon.

Within his linen shell our neighbour
disappeared by slow combustion.

We, of course, long since had tendered apologies
dropping out by the pantry window. Cake, beer
gammon and mustard we bore, and brandy and butter.

Knowing he had for these things no more use
no thirst to slake - no appetite to speak of –
once his fit was past and we were gone.