Last Gasps Poem by Mark Heathcote

In his crooked, coarse hand, a fag end
expended somewhat like his life
still savoured, but his thoughts transcend
mists of smoke, they'd internalise
all that's gone before in search
and has never returned his gaze.
Why did nobody come back perturbed?
Put him out of his malaise.

Tell their sad story; sure, if he could
He'd return at 10: 30 a.m. and whisper a word.
Smoulder down another smoke, assured.
One last time, his deathbed was deferred.
In that crooked, coarse hand a fag end
wet saliva on his beard, 'I'm back, old hags.
I died, but I have returned to attend.
This is my funeral, and I hear your last gasps.'