falseland provided
safety ropes
and pleasant shades
of saintly colors
like a Vatican clown

always there
always telling the
sweetest lies

her morphine
was not an addiction
more a curseword
making one long for
the sweet taste of soap

an admonishment with
no recourse
no mirror
no toll
no.

sang its
siren song of slumber
in a breath of pity

falseland’s anthem
a run-on
death sentence
in a minor key
to a bad apartment

lawn sculpture,
self-winding clocks
and the reminder
of delayed mortality
and hidden decay

the wry smile
of an agenda
you are not in this game
you are it

players change
and the window fogs
and the tax is due
the tax is due
death won’t help this hot date
there is a line of
pinch hitters down the street

your stand in
falseland
has run its course
the lease was written
in disappearing ink

© Tom Watters  10/11/06