Death Becomes Her - Poem by Martin Lochner
The old birds married for forty years
Holding hands and walking the promenade
they seemed content and indivisible
walking together without a word
taking in the last twilight sun
and feeding the seagulls.
One morning the old dame was found
To be walking alone
Collecting stubs on the pavement
And uttering the name of her coupling
looking straight in her cataract eye
death seemed very alive
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