I was there
when Yizreel died.
He'd had
his third stroke.
He looked at me
with his dull eyes,
but he never spoke.

I nursed him after his first,
aided him through his second;
the voice surviving,
a lame left wing,
walking with a slide
of leg and stick.

You take good care of me,
he said, like a good son,
better in fact, not out of duty,
nor the the wages, I expect,
I'd hear him say,
in what they pay.

I loved him like a father,
a grandfather I didn't have;
washed him, dressed,
shaved and brush his hair;
he pretending all was well
as if he didn't care.

I attended his funeral;
sat amongst his family
unnoticed by most,
except by his son,
a tall thin man, here,
he said,he's a fiver,
for work you've done.

I was there when Yizreel
died his death;
a closing of his dull eyes
and ease of breath.