Dead and what remains of the hand stretches clear out to the suburbs.
Palmistry. Map of what’s left for the living.
He told me once.
No I won’t be buried. Don’t even fancy being found.
A John Doe sort of life and death.
Refuse to be manicured.
At any age. At your age. At my age.
He gave up on shoelaces and shuffled.
Dead and what remains of the afternoon is spent on sidewalks.
At least they don’t have dogs.
No place for conversation and what remains is stitchery.
An abandoned stretch of prognostication.
Only invisible arts.
The cause of death is better left unknown.