I have you still, my son:
photos, memories,
things you touched,
where you stood,
where you sat,
where you'd been,
where you were at.
I have you still:
tee-shirts, shirts,
wallet, black and leather,
empty now, passport
with your photo inside,
other things of yours
left behind, inherited,
gifts maybe from the dead.
But not the you
I can hug or embrace,
or talk to quietly,
face to face,
not the you
with chuckled laughter,
dry humour and wit,
not any of that,
not one bit.
I have you still:
dreams in black and white
or coloured rather weird
as dreams are, nightmares
walking the dark corridors
of the hospital,
the bed at the end,
you there swollen,
hard of breath,
awaiting death.
A FATHER TALKS TO HIS DEAD SON.