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 own, malaise.

Tell they're sad story; sure if he could
he'd return at 10: 30 am and whisper a word.
Smoulder down another smoke assured
one last time, his deathbed deferred
in that crooked coarse hand a fag end
wet spittle on his beard, 'I'm back old hags
I died, but have returned to attend-
this my funeral and hear your last gasps.'