Rex Everything came ambling past my door

No longer addicted to chocolate or pot,

no longer taking photos,

he sat in my kitchen and

I saw the absence in his eyes,

and remember, this is the man

who had built a papier Mache monster

seven foot in size

big blue eyes and big red lips

from the pissed on wrappers of patty and chips,

who had politely asked permission

to hold up a bank

with a yellow water pistol,

(which, he assured the girl,

fired blanks)

and was later found waist deep

in despair

in a pond in the park by the police.

The man who bought a Lottery ticket everyday

at 8am and pegged them out

on a washing line,

One by one,

Monday next to Tuesday,

and so on, and then,

at five to eight on a Saturday night,

doused them all with Zippo fluid

and set his week of hope aflame

in one swift amber whoosh

capture it on camera

and then slow it down

frame by frame

into a potentially award winning short film

Called “Over By Sunday”,

that never got made,

due to mass indifference

and a lack of Lottery Funding.

 

Rex said,

I’m writing poetry now

but I’ve had a few problems

How so?

Well, for instance, I’ll think,

I know,

I’ll write a poem about the world

But then I’ll think of the world

and the actual word world

and then I’ll think:

what other thing rhymes with the world?

And he looked at me:

Well, what about furled?

Furled?

Yeah, furled;

as in the opposite of unfurled,

as in like a flag.

He looked at me, considered.

Is that even a word?

But he wrote it down, glad :

furled

a grin of delight on his face that abruptly

gave way

to sudden wounded

despair,

a face

so utterly bereft and

sad.

Yeah, he said,

That’s all well and good,

but what comes

after that?