Riches

Gray radiation beyond
a grey time.
Coughing spits and last rites
can't count as a unit of measure.
Three years is not long enough
to count, yet we're still counting.
Glasses raised from beyond where they may be now.
Crackers, party hats and two line jokes.
A fitting memory to a legacy paved with green, golden leaves and a river
that only one pair of lovers envisage at one time.
Two queens.
Obtainable beings out of reach like
mist but we laced their boots each morning.
Two rivers cross and a canal runs dry.
Placing footsteps and ashes,
oars stroke and feet hang over
the edge, just touching the water.
Friends know nothing of none of what is lost.
Hands numb from writing what might've cracked a smile.
Felt collars can't be held
but they should be grabbed,
thrown into a fire.