Lightly scrambled

at ground level
there are several challenges
the least not being
which is a dying art

I lived with Crusoe
or was it Caruso?
they both sang when the morning
came idling along.

That was a story of which I was a part of
which was a part of my living that
I’m dying not to think of,

at sub zero
in every chapter a hero is born.

It feels like a Sunday and
I’m not sure why,
the sky looks like a bible
blackened with age

I suppose that’s one more stage
in the dying to live or the living to die
and I’m not sure why it should be,

it was definitely Caruso
I know
he spoke Italian so well.

I feel better now,
sometimes things niggle away
all day and give me no peace
until I find the answer.

© 2016, John Smallshaw.