When I return home
late into the evening
I notice things and dreams
no one dreams

Two seats away
sat the zomby
late Truman Capote
with an unlit cigare

he twitched his head
a nervous two or three times
because - I think - it itched
the doctor didn’t stitched
it all too well

perhaps he was late
for breakfast at who ever’s

face to face
with this perversely rotting undead
sat the ghost of Dylan Thomas
mourning over his loss
of a rare and radiant bottle
the angels named Jhonny Walker
lost - I think - in some milky forest