A method to her madness,
Echoes trapped in doorways,
Never surprised by dead neighbors,
They beat me to it.
Much is gifted in a death bed.
Two small barbiturates did her in,
She, the lush purple wig above a laundry basket,
Whose gluteus maximus killed good sense,
Is no more.
If I be a betting man,
I hereby donate a good eye,
A single malt aperitif,
For Ms. whatchamacallit.
For elusive buttocks.
You bested the crazy Irish Medusa.
Defied the cool cats.
Knocked the pestilence of 15th & 52nd.
Purple wig peeps from beneath white sheets,
Orange nightdress restrain cold breasts,
Empty portrait in deathly grip,
In your Sunday best.
To go as she went,
E’Pluribus Sanctus. Amen.
Less that fat Irish landlady choking the stairwell,
Caressing little silver-bellied feline,
Against hard-boiled breasts,
As she demands rent in a strident cockney,
And prays us dead one day after.
Boy, to see the mortician frown now,
Shiny scalpel captions:
A big red letter Y, a question carved and sewn,
The canyon of unplundered breasts reply,
A baffling query around hairy nipples.
This becomes the way of life,
What neighbors later come to be,
Purple wig, clean white sheets.
Calming death unites for a time.
In the perfect purple of dawn,
She found it,
Good fortune in a made bed.
The lady who went out with a bang.