No thirst like that

Of bones dry to the marrow

Leached and bleached.

 

I am alone above ground.

The dead excellent company.

They listen, wisely adding nothing

Do not rail at red hawk

Sitting on a tombstone,

Deer grazing their graves,

Squirrel interring its small tribute.

 

I take them fine brews

Belgian and German,

A sip for me , then one

for the arid earth, but only

For the dormant poets.

Those Eatons and Masseys

Already hoisted the best

They can taste

Molson Canadian and like it.

 

So, a toast to the dead -

Their city of silence,

Soft presence on the air.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Drinking With The Dead

Text Box: John Oughton

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