Ken
Your lungs were stuffed with Brummagem stubbornness
that made you unbearable; coughing up slivers
of Spaghetti Junction, waiting for haemorrhoids;
breaths like sighs that splashed and bubbled
over hospice sterility. Not pain, precisely,
summat worse than that - beyond our ken.
Same as my Dad, eyes drawn forth and back
to the oxygen tap, weighing the minutes,
rehearsing the ritual of mouth to mask.
Unlike my Dad, you never got married,
no partner filed away the rough edges
or expanded the narrow box you inhabit.
Fuck the Chinese, you said, working for nothing
as if they were making lifestyle choices.
Fuck the doctors and fuck the nurses,
fuckin' whores and Pakis. Fuckin' Health Service.
Nestling your tablets, ciggies and matches,
spite and venom all the way to the coffin.
This sliver of inheritance, my slice of the takings
weighs down my wallet and slows up my gallop.
Not shame exactly, summat worse than that.
Greg Freeman
Wed 23rd Mar 2011 10:15
You don't spare us much here, Ray. But lines such as "eyes drawn forth and back / to the oxygen tap, weighing the minutes,/ rehearsing the ritual of mouth to mask" reveal someone who has witnessed these pain-filled moments, kept vigil. "This sliver of inheritance, my slice of the takings" has a rueful edge to it; someone who can't quite be comforted by the knowledge that he has fulfilled his duty, kept faith and even shown love, by being there.