The Garret

by Patrick Kennedy

(In response to Henry Wallis's Death of Chatterton)

He's draped across the bed as if asleep.

He looks as if he's had too much to drink.

As if to prove that he was right to think

It wouldn't matter, dawn's begun to creep

In at the open window. There's a heap

Of torn up paper; an empty jar of ink;

A burned out candle; and petals from a pink

Flower. Beneath the limp, romantic sweep

Of his right arm, there is an empty vial

Lying on the floorboards; and in the corner

The bright red coat he'd worn the day before.

The ghost of something strangely like a smile

Plays on his lips, as if he were a child

Who knows no one can hurt him anymore.