Self-preservation (Poetry)

Eyes open, blue lips parted
where his final breath hung,
trapped in frozen beads,
white-furred tongue poking,
vaguely fatuous —
maybe his last practical
and not-so-funny joke
backfired, brittle as that fuzz
of frost-permed hair — wild,
black brambles strung with home-made hoar.

No panic showed;
bottles ranged in rows
upright, undisturbed.
The Sunday joint beside him
and a note ‘To whom it may concern...’,
and questions spelled out riddles
scribbled, slow —
‘Will our love keep forever,
can I hope to deep-freeze dreams,
preserve them, perfect green,
cling-wrapped against decay?’

‘And besides,’ the words continued,
‘when at last the great door’s closed
on this chilly world,
does the light inside still glow
or are we locked in sterile darkness? —
Please understand, I really had to know.’