His dress shabby though
he tried to keep his clothes
clean and mended,
bereft, largely solitary
after his father
Never discovered the whereabouts
of tranquil flowered landscapes
populated by children and fantastic creatures.
Dedicated every remaining day to composing
a single-spaced fantasy manuscript
whose endless pages concluded:
“I had a very poor nothing like Christmas.
Never had a good Christmas all my life,
nor a good new year, and now
I am very bitter but fortunately not revengeful,
though I feel should be how I am”