by Pat Tiger
I sit decked in stripes – yellow, blue, green;
a radio plays Elton’s Healng Hands.
Unscrewing the flask I think about
how you always asked me to do this.
I do it automatically now – remembering
that your sandwiches were the best
and the serviette you always included
made things so fine …
Pat Tiger writes short stories and poetry.
The Pygmy Giant 