I have inherited
your Augusten
Burroughs books,
after your death,

my son;
they sit
neat and tidy
on the bookshelf

by my bed.
I wish it was you
sitting there
quietly, instead.

I have inherited
some of your shirts
and tee-shirts,
many I recall

you wearing,  
some in photos
in my head.
I have inherited

that Christmas jumper,
the one you wore
last year
in white and red,

and your black
flat cap, too.
Wish it wasn't me
wearing them,

but you,
my son, you.
I have a selection
of your rock CDs,

a wallet, photos
and a short story

book you wrote,
but what

I don't have,
my son, is you.