That last time I saw you,
cancer ridden, gaunt, no
longer the strong man
I remembered as a kid.
That time as a young
man in East Lane market,
you rushing with your stall
to get a pitch, your mother
following short and stout
calling out. And that time
your first wife, after an
argument, threw tea over
your shirt, just before you
went out. The time I saw you
sitting there in the kitchen
with my mother, your son
having died in battle in 1957,
and mother comforting you.
That last time they brought
you home in the open coffin
to stay overnight, pale featured,
waxen looking, and we all
kissed your cold forehead
a sad farewell to you dead.