Mulligan's wake

when billy boy, in a mindless shrivel
has, wraith-like, slumped against the satin,
a time when hidden wights of barrow
are given over to April's gloom
and there are no pennies left for grieving:

it is time, then, to wind the fibrous yarn
tighter and tighter around his index finger
to make a purple bubble.

prick it in a desperate look for life.