the fossil record

The Dark Horses

When the dark horses come for me

It won’t make any difference how many wheelchair scars I have on my hands

Or how many people have seen me wearing a poppy

Or how many homeless people I have smiled warmly at,

I will still regret not having won the lottery.

As the sound of their galloping grows louder

And I see them heading my way

I won’t be thinking about the wasps I didn’t kill but could have

Or all the lonely old people I said ‘Good morning’ to

I will just think about the flashy cars I never got to drive.

And as the dark horses stampede into me

And knock me to the ground

I won’t curse what has befallen me

Only curse that I never got to shag a bimbo

who was only interested in my money.

Once my funeral has gone

And all the sausage rolls left over from my wake have finally been eaten

The solicitor will read out my will

And maybe then my family and friends will wish I had won the lottery too.

Tom Carson