no more

no more dozen glazed
to bleed jam for the flies
no more whisky to pour
its smoky cackle over ice
no more Pringles and tuna fish
or Trebor’s Spearmints
no more laughter
that weeps instead of cries
or the solved jigsaw of their body
finding yours in the dark

just questions like blind hands
pawing through fog
as your wind chime limbs
hang silent on the breeze
asking and asking into white noise
hiding the one question
that no one will utter:
what did he know that we don't?