As our golden years began,
you and I made a pact.
In youth we once soared high,
but now our skin is cracked
and our best years seem hijacked.
When I was diagnosed with illness,
you were the first person I called
and I marveled at your stillness.
You didn’t phone for weeks; I was appalled,
being tossed away by one who’s fat and bald.
Looking for a replacement after four years.
the next day you were on dating sites,
Is your tired old photo being met there by cheers?
Pact-breaker, this just bites!
I won’t be there when they give you last rites.
Any woman you find won’t stay with you long;
sarcastic cheaters stay with their kind.
Perhaps another innocent will come along,
but your whiskey and alcohol she’ll leave behind.
Yours is the fate of one who by a pact won’t be confined.
*Pact poem for Paula’s contest