Blasted

If I were blasted into a thousand pieces who would pick me up
and put me together again; would it be the little children
playing in the lane or the cat sitting on the sill behind
the window pane or perhaps the wizened old lady
feeding bread crumbs to the pigeons in Spain
who would be the first to notice that
I am gone, it wouldn’t be my
mother because she
beat me to the
finish line
and all the
king’s horses
and all the king’s men
couldn’t put me back together
again right William? Alas poor Yorik
I knew him well, a welcome relief my season
in hell Rimbaud but I worry if we shall ever make
it to the otherside of the River Styx in a drunken boat, farewell…