by Caroline Healy

Like the hollow clanging of a spoon hitting porcelain;

soporific sermons for a surfeited audience.

He was away for slates, and as you do,

they lined up to feign platitudes,

each more resplendently gowlish than the last.

A bad dose of "Sorry for your troubles," and "Call me anytime."

A plethora of cant and the long silence preceding

the final click of the door.

Peace, love, temperance, charity, kindness

flip into oblivion like months on a calendar.

The car's banjaxed again.