I thought
I had you

for always;
I was mistaken.

Some God,
or not,

as the case
may be,

has for some reason,
unknown to me,

has you
from me,

hurtfully
taken.

She wore her red beret
at an angle
tilted slightly
her hair flowed

from the back
and sides
she had just ridden
my blue

two wheeled
scooter
then sat beside me
on the grass

the blue scooter
resting against the wall
I wonder if people hid
in the bomb shelters?

she said
if the air-raid sirens
went off they would
have done

I said
looking at the shelters
over the way
bet it was dark

in there and spiders
and such
she said
better than being

blown apart
by a bomb
I said
I gave her

one of my sherbet
flying saucer sweets
she put it
in her mouth

and *******
up her eyes
sour
she said

I smiled
gets you
like that
the first time around

she opened her eyes
guess so
she said
she watched

as I put one
in my mouth
and sensed
the sherbet explode

on the tongue
then chewed
the outer softness
can I have another?

Janice asked
sitting there
head to one side
sure

I said
and offered her
the bag
she put two

of her thin fingers in
and took out
a sweet
I noticed

how blue
her eyes were
like small oceans
each reflecting

the summer sky
she wiped
her fingers
on her orange dress

leaving a white sherbet
damp powdery mess.

Can you
buy me
an Augusten
Burroughs book?
You asked.

I'd not heard
of the guy
until then;
read Bill Burroughs,
but this guy
was new to me.

Anyway,
I sought him out
in the local book store
and purchased
the book you said;
wrapped it up
for the birthday gift
and gave.

Now and then,
if house sitting
for you, while you
were at work
and some workman
came to do a job
or sort things out,
I’d pick out
the Burroughs book
and read
a paragraph
or so, smile,
get the drift,
the humour
pretty much
like yours,
then put it down
until another time arrived
to carry on
the quest to read
where I’d left off
the time before.

Now
since your sudden death,
I’ve inherited them all,
the large book
and medium range
and the small.

I've all the time
to read them now;
they sit there
by my bedside cabinet
waiting to be read,
silent, well behaved,
orderly, all in line.

I wondered if
you read them all,
or if time ran out
before the end,
that illusive
final paragraph
or so, that last book
unread.

I guess
I’ll never know;
you being
on the other side
of the curtain,
they label:
being dead.

Sure I’ll read
the books
read them
until the end
each
and every one;
but I’d rather
see you again
my dear
departed son.

I wish to get lost sometimes
just to have someone find me,
then I can, in a different way,
re-tell my story

Baruch liked
Yehudit's eyes
the smile that lingered
waiting for her

seemed an eternity  
being with her
always seemed
too short a time

the walk
by the wood shed
the memory
of their first

smoke there
she almost choking
that first time
the path

through the woods
the trees tall
sky above
hardly seen

she by a tree
that time waiting
said she wanted to
but they didn't

not just yet
he said
the walk to the pond
warm weather

unlike that first time
when the frost
bit them
he waited

by the pond side
ducks swimming
disturbing
the water's skin

she lay once
beside him here
talked of ***
or what

she knew of it
what girls
at school said
what one girl

said it was like
he watched the ducks
smelt the weather's air
that first kiss

kisses followed
she and him
the moon shining
above them

he liked the way
she lay
on that bed
the sunlight

through the window
falling
on her *******
he watched the sky

through
the tall trees
clouds passing
he liked her hand

in his
warm pulsing
fingers touching
undoing

doing
waiting seemed
an eternity
he often said

playing out
the last kiss
inside
his morning time head.

We'll never get
those times back now,
least not for real,
in mind maybe,
viewing photographs,
recalling past times,
long ago laughs.

But now it's just that,
memories in stacks,
memories of you,
places, things done,
things said; gone now,
you being dead.

You kept words
to a minimum,
used them
like precious coins;
seldom making
statements; rarely
getting in involved
in the small talk,
the day to day banter;
but when you did,
came out of your shell,
it all meant
something more,
special, done well.

Even at the Tate Modern
you kept your views
of the art and artists
to yourself; their skill
or lack of, never
mentioned or hinted at;
just your quiet viewing,
that way you had
of taking things in,
ordering them neatly
inside your head;
your encyclopediatic  
knowledge of matters,
or so seemed,
you processed;
that look you had,
seemingly impassive,
unmoved, but moved
you were, a soul like
yours so often is,
deeply moved that is,  
your eyes taking in,
your mind processing
the whole show,
as you did before,
in your own way
of having your say.

Wish you were
still here, with your
few words, that look
of yours, back here today.

I wear
your grey
woollen mittens,
the ones

you can make
into gloves
by pulling over
the fingers

to make complete;
soft, thick,
but warm; neat.
I can sense you near

with them on;
an imaginary pulse
moves along
beside mine.

You felt the cold;
although didn't say
as such
or not

over much;
your hands
and fingers
seeking shelter

within the wool,
rubbing against
the fibre, skin
on softness,

warmth like
a kind of drug,
seeping in.
I wear your grey

woollen mittens,
my fingers fitting
where yours once did,
the feel of you

in the wool's soft memory;
the fibre’s hold,
keeping you warm,
my son,

keeping to warm
against the cold.
The mittens seem fresh;
not worn thin or aged

or coming unwoven
as some things do.
I wear your grey mittens,
have them close,

neat and touching.
I wish they were you.

Jeanette looked
back at me in class
I was at the back
with Reynard

focusing
on the history lesson
as best we could
the text books open

before us
some colour picture
of a cave man
with a spear

and dressed in fur
and some cave girl
standing beside
looking **** ugly

Reynard said
in whispered breath
Jeanette’s eyes
were focused on me

dark looking
her hair long
and dark
thin hands

and frame
she looked away again
her narrow shoulders
full to view

the teacher
was chalking words
upon the board
sentence

after sentence
in a measured script
I thought about
the quick peck

on Jeanette's cheek
at lunch recess
just so
quick in and out

before she had time
to say or breathe
or feel the affects
to make her swoon

or sick or both
I scribbled
on the exercise page  
in untidy scrawl

Reynard muttering
comments
about the cave girl's ****
about hair

under her arms
but I was focused
on Jeanette’s line
of curve

the way her
narrow waist
went in and out
so narrow

I’d get my arms
all about
dark hair
on her shoulders

smooth
well brushed
or combed
the head

at an angle
as if to scrutinize
the writing
on the board

take in the words
and sense
and write it down
in her (I imagined

far finer hand
than mine
going by the smooth
movement

of her fingers and pen)
maybe I could
kiss her again
I thought

some place
some when.