Turfseer's New Poetry Collection
Free PDF download
Who would have guessed that Turfseer is also a poet? I didn’t, not until I collaborated with ChatGPT, who turned some of my life’s recollections into surprisingly good verse.
My collection, Blake Avenue and Other Poems, has been beautifully designed by Shova, an exceptional graphic designer on Fiverr. You can download the entire collection here:
Download here:
Here’s a brief overview of the eight poems in the collection:
Lost at the Beach (1957) – A childhood trauma revisited.
The Eighth Inning – Memories of the unforgettable 1960 World Series.
The Drive to Pittsburgh – A tribute to my mother’s roots.
The Hypnotist – A family friend’s ill-fated attempt at hypnosis.
Blake Avenue – Nostalgia for my grandparents’ Brooklyn home.
The Last Breakfast – A colleague’s tragic final decision.
The Folly of Youth – How moving to California didn’t go as planned.
The Elephant in the Room – A drama coach’s #MeToo ordeal
Here’s a glimpse of The Last Breakfast, but to experience the full collection, be sure to download the PDF.
The Last Breakfast
We were both in Investigations,
Bob, one of the old guard,
a bit of a Luddite,
struggling with the computer when it arrived.
His troubles started
with a woman,
her hands on his credit card,
pulling him into debt.
But he found solace in her son,
for a time,
before his mother’s death
and an inheritance kept him afloat.
One Thursday,
I noticed Bob seemed off,
his face weighed down by something deeper.
We went to lunch,
hero sandwiches in hand,
and as we unwrapped them,
he unwrapped his troubles—
his wife sinking him into more debt,
this time for a blackjack school,
the stepson gone,
shipped off to live with his grandparents.
His words stuck with me,
heavy in my mind over the weekend.
I thought maybe I should speak with him again,
but Monday came,
and Bob never showed up to work.
Tuesday, I worked from home.
I didn’t see him,
but others did—
pacing the hallway,
restless, returning to his room.
Later, the police were called,
the door wouldn’t budge—
he had barricaded it with a chair.
When they finally got inside,
the room was empty.
His ID, his wallet,
his badge were lying on the desk,
next to a plate of half-eaten scrambled eggs.
A chair beneath an open window,
the last sign of his exit.
We were on the 10th floor,
and he fell—
a janitor found him
on some scaffolding below.
It made the papers,
and I stared at the article,
wondering if I could have done something,
if speaking to him that Monday
could have made a difference.
But who could have known
he would go so far?
Maybe no one
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And check out Shova’s gig on Fiverr after you’ve taken a look of her design of my poetry collection.
The Last Breakfast: powerful.