The Last Post

 

The Last Post

 

Middle hours of the night, 

let's throttle and thrash

head over heel, pull thin sheets

which combat mosquitos

but escalate heat

until all’s sticky,

wake each morning with headache

and wonder if 

today could be the last post.

 

The odds in favour? Infinitesimal.

The odds against are strong

and yet who knows if 

this warning klaxon

or next thunderclap 

could be the final one -

a last trump, a bugle long.

There’s always that chance;

what you thought you knew is gone

and dreams come deep

as dawn's shadows creep.

 

Last night you dreamt of John,

resurrected within admiring throng,

signing copies, quintessential

while Dylan chewed 

from cold cups of stewed lentils,

a red dal – boiled cheap

into sticky thick red heaps

a plague upon snatched sleep.