The Bad TimekeeperA Poem by David Lewis PagetThey’d shovelled her husband into the ground Before she got to the grave, She wasn’t able to keep good time And her husband used to rave: ‘I spend my life, waiting for you, You’ll be late for your funeral,’ That wasn’t due, but it may come true, She was late for his, do tell!
He wasn’t a very pleasant man He was known for his violent moods, She’d married the guy, then wondered why, He was often downright rude. She knew what he was capable of For he’d often flipped his lid, And left a trail of destruction then For that was the thing he did.
If only she had got to the grave In time for a swift goodbye, And with a spray, sent him away, She may have just heard him sigh. But he must have known she was still at home When the hearse, with him inside, Arrived at the local cemetery On time, but without his bride.
She lay awake in the bed that night And thought she could hear him breathe, Just across from her pillowcase And her breast began to heave. The wind sough-soughed at the windowsill And she heard a step on the stair, She wished for once she had been on time To know she had left him there.
But she hadn’t seen the coffin drop And the hole was almost full, She’d asked that they uncover it But she didn’t have the pull. She only hoped he was six feet down Unable to get back out, When there was a rattle, out on the porch And she heard a dead man shout.
‘Late, you’re late, you’re always late,’ It moaned, in an eerie tone, ‘You couldn’t get to the grave on time So you left me all alone. You’d not come even to say goodbye And for that, you’ll pay the price, For I’ll reach out of the grave tonight And I promise, it won’t be nice!’
The shutters began to rattle and bang And the door flew out, ajar, The wind howled in like a taste of sin ‘I know just where you are!’ She shrieked, and pulled the covers up And placed them over her head, ‘You just can’t stay, please go away, You can’t be here, you’re dead!’
The covers were torn from her huddled form And from what the coroner said, ‘Her face was white, she died of fright,’ Curled up in her lonely bed. There was just one thing in the autopsy That was missed, and he made a note, The thing was botched, for her husbands watch He found, was lodged in her throat.
David Lewis Paget © 2015 David Lewis PagetFeatured Review
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