Final

It almost has the word “fine” in it, 
as in, “My mother is fine.”
Like a ghost, the “e” is present,
though not in person.

“Finial,” too, that ornament of love
on the roof ridge of sorrow.
“Up here! Up here! Look at me!”
cries the wanting “i.” 

How my mother could fashion a house!
(A decorator never calls 
anything decorative.)
Black walls in a living room!

And “fail,” though it isn’t lacking a letter. 
(A coffin, like a narcissist, never pines.)
The word is short on life; 
it always makes a killing.

Marriages fail, businesses fail… 
Never trust a broker—
Cupid, oxygen, E.F. Hutton—
that alphabets against you. 

Ralph James Savarese | Loaf
Contents | Mudlark No. 82 (2025)