By Simon Barget
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….
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.
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.