he turned the corner, a slow maudlin gait
what is he thinking, a sick father’s fate
his head low hanging, collecting his thought
perhaps he’s tricking, this large morbid lot
always the teaser, his typical ploys
surely the answer, we’re gullible toys
burning subsides with, new hesitant hope
he steps within reach, wordless I cope
he looks in our eyes, put up to the ruse
begging and pleading, he’ll not disabuse
our skill was peerless, no breath is now drawn
so says the doctor, and my daddy’s gone
art: by Ivana Besevic
