Captain
It began with how he came to be here
Steaming tea before him and walking stick behind
One eye, red, white and blue, surveys the room
The other weeps uselessly, for the eighty years gone.
It’s been five years since his wife ‘popped off’,
There’s a dark mass of loss where real terms are kept
In the gaps between, wisping like blood in water.
There’s a daughter, but the company is poor compared
A pat on the back is far from a hand to hold.
He was someone in the navy, proud years full of purpose
Now, he says he doesn’t know why he’s still alive.
He suspects that I understand, looking at him palms up,
Head inclined. Am I lonely here? he asks concerned.
We share a dread for the coming months of chilled spirit
Despair at how to manage with butchered provisions.
I want to tap his hand twice, but instead take his change
And answer yes, sometimes. He nods, hearing always.
(If you are wondering whether there will be some happy prose on here one of these days, the answer is yes, yes there will.)
No comments:
Post a Comment