As one door opens, another closes. Bad things
come to those who wait. Time hales all wounds.
The world’s our oyster, sickly, most
of it unpalatable, waste.
He was the apple of her eye, rotten to the core;
she a peach, a stone for a heart. A real dead wire.
It all works out well in the beginning:
tomorrow is yet another day. It’ll look worse in the morning.
The darkest hour’s after dawn. The world’s a stage:
no one’s rehearsed. You’re third stooge
from the right, your interval a mid-life crisis.
‘Play the game with me. It’s noughts and crosses.’
This poem © Oliver Tearle 2021