footprints in the bacon fat
the pin-tin upset of it's contents
   red-head green-head blue-head
   settle where they will
for angels rise on point
                                    but not to scare
the sheep of the field - now in the garden -
    and barely disturb the flapping red curtain
    at the cracked window pane -
       for black roses and lilies taste too good

but not as good as old tom
   on the brown tiled kitchen floor
   - face half lost and fallow -
one arm reaching from the phone

even in death he has retained
style and keeps his cap
in place
             the mousey nose
             in the jowl eaten jaw
   widens his beatific grin

they shovel him out when the dog starts to bark
    and cover their noses with chemical masks
    and everyone says it is all such a shame
for a lover of nature
                              to go in that way

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