Sundays at Six...
You have left me...already, yet still
I kiss you goodbye, as you sit there,
on the porch. They’ll take you back
inside, as soon as I drive off. At least
ten times you’ve asked what the time is
in the last five minutes, and with each reply,
you seem surprised. Forget what I’m called,
though you can list each car you’ve owned
and reel off events; where you were,
who you were with on VE Day.
When I get home, I make myself think
only of the past. Remember when you
and Mum waltzed around the kitchen;
Mantovani’s Charmaine playing sweet
and low on the wireless, and how those
were indeed the days. You were tall
and handsome; far as I was concerned
the best Dad in the whole wide world.
And now, I make out I don’t mind
when I feed you like a child; pretend
not to notice when you don’t swallow
so good. Treat it as a joke; pat you
on the back. Say, ‘Choke up chicken!’
like you told me, when I used to bolt
my food. I know I could never tell you
anything of this, and, that every day,
I get a tiny bit closer to everything
I didn’t ever want to know.