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Thanks Mr. Deacon

Thanks mister deacon

For the splintery dust box

Happy birthday to me…

Wasted candles on a wasted cake

I guess I’m a tragedy

In death an irony

Birth and death on May 19th

Fifty years apart

A hunk of marble was my best and final gift

But please feel free to eat the cake

Unless the deacon poisoned it

Like he poisoned me

In death all life’s mystery reveals itself

Author's Notes/Comments: 

I wrote this poem for a class.  We were given a newspaper story to interpret into poetic form about a man who made his wife a coffin for her birthday.  I added all of the stuff about him killing her; I suppose that I have a morbid sense of humor.

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last updated 11 October 2010 - 6:24am
©11 July 2002 - 9:40pm — cuddledumplin