my father’s younger brother
was quite an interesting fellow
worked over time in different jobs
and on the sided wrote poems
stories  novels  texted songs

we lived about 150 miles apart
exchanged occasional mails and comments
on each other’s writings

then I received an email rather strange
stating that he had underestimated
his sickness but wished to have no visits
at the time

it seriously felt
    like something was not right

and two days later
    I was just about to call
a weeping aunt was on the phone
and told me of his death

from what she said
it was not nice

he died of  cancer of the pancreas
could hardly move in his last weeks
and only weighed one hundred pounds
down from 200   when he died
guess his demise was a relief for him
    as well as her

how sad that he  a man of letters
     who wrote thick novels and articulate verse
could not find words for his own pain

maybe  like many of his generation
he felt his sickness was  a shame
or he was furious at his body   or his fate
or did not want to burden others
or did not like them to be witness
to his waning health

I do not know

what I shall remember
is the loud silence
in his last mail

          * *

"Dear John
By the time you read these lines,
I will be gone."

The rocking chair,
The only piece of furniture
Remaining

"Dear John
By missing the deadline for your
Dissertation
The school will not have you
returning."

The books are boxed

The rocking chair rocks on
With every breath
Taken.

You don't have to die
To have lives wilt and cry.
Looking around through curious eyes
Nothing which was remains.

"Dear John
Your lease has expired
You will be moving on."

The rocking chair
Rocks on.

The twilight seeps in through
Windows without curtains.

The door opens
A moment of melancholy
The door closes

The rocking chair without him there
Becomes still
In the twilight air.

Red haired girls always
seem oxygen starved
it’s like they've played hockey
for too long
or ran after their marmalade cat,
into the coal cellar,
after they had enough of  Miss too perfect

Oh to be brunette .
Toujors a different visage
somehow more autre,
strongly self reliant.
Cannot  believe their promises.
forever planning another
perfect  weekend  ahead

Of the schema and polite conversation
where we learn the gentle art of fluttery
or how to complain in the surest dismissive line.
The uplighters are headache inducing
unless we've picked up a restless  cold,
downstairs cafe a shocker
thick coffee reminiscent of Starbucks.
Early retirement a pipe dream
we surely drop down before time  
not having navigated work life balance
because of  the distances travelled
and rest spent weekends.