He didn’t look much like I remembered last seeing
Him, he’d lost weight, and assumed a general scrawniness of demeanour
And his teeth were gleaming unnaturally, although he swore they were all his own.
“But neither of my hips are” he winked.
When I went into his house at the end of a year I wish I’d slept through
I had never seen anyone I knew with a personal trophy cabinet
And still in their twenties.
Over the rusted intervening years I picked up one or two
But never had anywhere to put them
So they turn up occasionally under
The spare bed.
He was organised. He picked up a lifetime award
While I’m still wondering whose life I’m supposed to be living.
Most of my bits are still my own, for now
Though some have left and those remaining
Increasingly feel unsure of their purpose.
So shoulder by shoulder, here we are,
Creaky piles of human bricolage,
Looking on, saying goodbye to a friend,
Sipping a tearful tea
While Geoff tries to wring the last spoonful
Out of a party keg.
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Stephen A. Linstead
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