It was just a matter of time, now;
that agile mind of his – soaked up
knowledge like a sponge – defunct,
all-but thrown in the towel. So...
how will I fill this gaping void – quench
my thirst from an arid well?
I’ll have read a good book...written
a new poem, and have no one to tell.
No gloating voice at the end of a phone,
having solved ‘twenty-two down’.
All those precious photos – letters of his,
stashed in a tin. Later, I’ll read
and reread that faded scrawl
from a boy, turned soldier,
at eighteen years old.
Another night, another day, waiting...
for finality, feeling guilty as sin,
because, in a way, I want it to come;
and when it does, with the ring
of the telephone bell, kid myself
I’ll hear him say, ‘Hi, Son.’