They trail in the wreckage,

Poor souls,

Their fading footprints,

Found on dusty photos,

Behind the Royal Doulton

Figurines. 

 

I have dressed them in suits and ties,

Some against their will.

Men look best that way I figure,

What with their straight lines,

And small hips.

 

They had taken me out to dinner,

And I had kissed them occasionally,

When the right moment struck,

Not very often.

 

We would dance until dawn,

Drunken stumbling aside,

Head over heels, deliriously happy,

They were.

 

Without realizing,

The inevitable crash into oblivion,

Would leave hearts trailing in the

Dust like so many rattling,

Tin cans.