Cry no tears for us, my friend. I pry at her fingers, panicking to be released in fear that she may drag me into death with her. She croaks again, Lend no aches to the dreams of yesterday. From the corpse of Warren, his greyish gums smack from whatever goo has settled in his mouth, Allow the tide sweep free the bay. Then together they sing in zombie choir, And home the ships sailing send.
And then I laugh, because it's so ridiculous and so gorgeous and it's all I an do to not melt into a fit of giggles. So what if I'm ninety-three? So what if I'm ancient and cranky and my body's a wreck? If they're willing to accept me and my guilty conscience, why the hell shouldn't I run away with the circus? It's like Charlie told the cop. For this old man, this IS home.