by Nick Gisburne
They just don’t make the pieces anymore.
I looked, but they’re impossible to find.
Excuses. Lies. I’ve heard them all before,
But nobody can mend a broken mind.
I felt the little beauty start to fade,
And blamed the weather, criticised the cold,
But, as I stumbled, crumbled, cracked, decayed,
I told myself the truth: you’re getting old.
My dinner didn’t taste the way it should.
Whoever cooked it doesn’t have the knack.
I told her, and I thought she understood,
But heard her sobbing when I sent it back.
She doesn’t try to fix me. What a shame.
I love her, but I can’t recall her name.
