(The poetic form is the Welsh englyn penfyr, based around the tercet.)


My husband had a stroke. He thinks he’s dead
but eats bread and often drinks
while imagining he stinks
of decay. A custom-built coffin, please.
For his ease a mattress; in
the lid, air holes by his chin.
Tradesman, don’t leave. Wait! Oh, Tod? Just pretend.
Look, dear, a friend. Yes, it’s odd,
but I’ll pay well. See? Cash wad!
How did Tod “die”? His hand held by a nurse,
which transferred the curse. She planned
to free herself from the damned.
Yes, so bizarre! Medical folk, perplexed,
feel vexed and guess it’s the stroke
to blame. Just nod, don’t provoke
him or he’ll get upset and start to yell.
In a nutshell, we want art.
My sketch will give you a start.
What? Oh, Tod won’t take meds. He feels his brain
is a withered bloodstain. Eels
of rot swim from head to heels.
You’ll build his coffin? I’ll pay top dollar.
No squalor in this house. Hey,
let’s shake on the deal, okay?
Tod, grab his hand! Quick! Secure our release.
I want peace! Good. We’ll procure
immunity now. We’re sure
of freedom, but... Oh, you poor tradesman!
Onset does stun, there’s no doubt,
but stops fast as a brownout.
Can you hear me? Tradesman? You’ll be all right.
Sharp pains tonight will bite cruel,
then, voila… You’ll be the ghoul.