Boatman (18)
I couldn’t adapt,
Should’ve kept
The concept trapped—
Backed in its corner
From latter to former;
Coroner to mourner…
Hey,
Grey matter
Heartbeat pitter patterer—
Cookie battered ice-cream bowl
Of ifs and ands and
Soul…
No, no, I’m the mist—
aka his front desk receptionist—
Charon will take your toll.