Friday 30 November 2012

#96 - The Reaper's Lonely Pint

With the cowl pushed back from his bowling ball scalp,
he didn't look much of anything.
His talon tinked on the rim of the glass,
and as he sank his suds
the note dropped.

On the ceiling above,
there was a scythe just like his,
but sharper.
He saw his future in the horse brasses.
He brushed crisps from his robe,
for a moment entranced,
by that briefest of novelties:
a lap.

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