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.