Endgame

By my bedside amongst the empty cups and empty luck are three books,

A Hundred Years of Solitude, and The Thrill of It All,

One I found while snooping around in a nineteenth century manor,

In an old bookshop stocked with oaky words of wisdom and power.

One was a gift from my Spanish friend, an omen,

A thought cuts through me like a blade cutting open an almost healed wound,

The other was a book of poetry I’d often look towards for relief,

And I think of those words on that card and I struggle to see,

This is the Endgame…

How does Frank Sinatra sound just lying around on a shelf?

Have you nothing to free him? Nothing to let him fly to New York, New York, New York,

The needle sits like a robin on a branch of a thorn bush at Christmas,

He comes every year to say hello, a family man, never a no show

Feel the bad, and the good will rise like a bird from an empty tree,

Hair auburn like a pinecone, a voice like silk dragged through a bush of thorns,

Trust is just a word whistled in the Autumn breeze, never spoken,

Oh that’s grand, don’t worry, my heart was already broken

On a rare sober night, I kissed you with all my lust,

And by Christmas time, I kissed you with all my love.