Trying to Remember What It Was Like
I sit quietly in a half-trance, trying to remember
you separate the pages of The Daily Telegraph
with a breath, scrutinising every column as
though it contained world-shaking information.
Trying to remember the pub in Hartlepool
where you used to plonk me and my sister
and disappear into the front room for hours
leaving us to challenge regulars to dominos.
Trying to remember your handshake,
that calm look, which turned angry later
when my mother mentioned money, when she
criticised anything you felt fine as it was.