Goodbye Dad

If it were that easy to fast-track grief 

And reach catharsis by condensing metaphors

Then I’d speak freely.

But your fish-gape mouth and catacomb stare 

Conferred no stolid dignity, and

You gawped so gormlessly and with such plaintive shock

That you lent that withered stump an illusion of life

And I had to look away.

I read it thus: as your lungs went to breathe,

Death had already taken you - à ton insu.

When we left that day you said:

“Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.”

Was this your stoic-comedic farewell?

Yes it must have been….

Goodbye Dad.

I sensed you were ready to go,

Though I hoped your canine will could prevail

Or that you were shamming even then.

But it appears that you weren’t.

‘What’s news?’

Well the watch works well

But water crept under the glass – nothing they can do.

They let the C-Class fall to bits

You see it’s just another car to them

Not a Liebesobjekt or Pflichtwerk.

(You could have polished the sheen off a rose.)

And I played with your clubs the other day

They exude that modest-defiant eleven-handicap-pride,

That boyish-obdurate obsession with preservation:

“What do I need new clubs for?”

You’re right, of course;

Everyone else heaves fattened barrels

Full of reinforced battering rams

But they still can’t hit the damn thing.

At least I had a half-decent swing, didn’t I?

Because, in plain language,

I don’t think you ever said.