I would have called him chubby
if it weren’t far too cheerful a word
for someone drenched in stagnant grief
like a grubby child sitting in a puddle
with tear tracks down a mud-streaked face
(which he uncannily resembled anyway)

Maybe it was the daisy chains
draped over him
they dripped from his arms
his neck
his wrists
his ankles
(and of course)
slung over his forehead
like sad crowns
hanging weakly in his eyes
at odd angles

He and his daisy chains,
they drooped
under the weight
of I knew not
what burden

His hands worked slowly
not mechanically
but with the steady
weary knowledge
of practice

There wasn’t enough
conviction
in his bleary eyes
to stare
he just looked
unfocused
at nothing you or I could have seen
though I thought perhaps
it might be who the daisy chains
were for

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