Remembering Errol Flanders of West Marble Court

Foxes for pillows at the head of his bed
and knock-knock joke eul’gies now that he’s dead.

He died as he lived–face down in his soup
or crying alone in a telephone-booth.

Sometimes he’d smile at cars passing by
while walking the freeway’s concrete divide.

I had him over last Tuesday for lunch.
He ventriloquized broccoli but it didn’t say much,

only to floss at least once each new moon
and never to trust lion cubs to baboons.

Now that he’s buried six-feet underground
I admit that it’s lonely without him around.

Published by dreysleeps

I art and eat and draw and sleep and cry and rhyme. I consume too much pizza and—by all rights—should be dead, but I haven't gotten around to it. Procrastination saved my life.

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