Tragedies In Pockets

Jeffrey was never lonely.

He collected shorn hair,

He collected trashed dates.

He wrapped the filthy smell of the rotting paints around him;

Jeffrey loved tragedies.

He kept that one shadow of a broken cage in a back pocket,

He hid yellowed name-tags under the cupboard,

He would take them out,

Re-live them,

One tragedy at a time.

Jeffrey knew the fifth house down the street,

A mime's death glistened on a wall,

The calendar read 4th March 1982.

"Pockets, so many pockets", chortled Jeffrey;

"Come Imperia, I'll weave a tragedy down that pretty braid", Jeffrey sighed.

"But my darling", the Imperia's brown eyes twinkled, "your eyes have caught the rainbow. It's time to fade"...

Jeffrey cried out, "Oh no Imperia. Too soon."

The porcelain doll stopped speaking from under the portraits.

The dying navy of the solstice was already on his tongue,

Jeffrey cried out laughing, "Indeed, I still love tragedies!"