his mate fancied himself
Dr. Watson, or even Holmes,
in a past life, but with the name,
Jamsheed Razavizadeh, his friends,
who chopped the proud pronunciation
to J-Razz, laughed at such
a great notion

not Phillip, whose one brother
had drowned only last Hallows Eve,
which made Phillip a believer
in all things

from school, his mates walked the same lane
past the spot, where his mother still lay wreaths
every Monday morn, the vicar giving her
the tired ones each Sabbath

Monday Phillip took the long way home
not wanting to see the flowers, on their own
eve of wilting, a pitiable reminder
fresh things don't last

J-Razz was the only one who walked
the long route with him, his own brother
in the loam near Tehran, drowned himself
by fire, not water

each week, the wreath lay
but a day, and the two from different mothers
would again take the shorter path, where
they would find slight solace in silence,
their journey home often
in merciful miasma
near river's edge