Lynn

Lynn, your daisies are stuck in my throat.

Your sister tore them out,

left her scent on my coat - but

you know she

didn’t know. So why

let her take part of me home to you?

Oh you -

you wanted me dead.

Couldn’t stand my humour, and you hated my hair red.

Oh you -

you really knew me so well.

How come you left for Oakdale? Don’t

want us to go stale.

Oh, but nothing 

really

lingers, does it?

But scent.

A scent.

Your sister has died amongst my jacket,

which I will wear

to see you -

someday,

somewhere out there.