Two doors down from me lived Alan

old school type, mason, drove a Jaguar

very proud he was, well turned out

visited his wife in hospital

incarcerated

uncomprehending.

 

I was asked in for a drink and a chat

      a really good sport, very sharp

liked a smoke and a scotch

     he poured two out in crystal glasses

from the lighted corner shrine.

      We shared some simple philosophies

steered a course through his coping

      fragments mostly, laced with a sense

of how time passes.

 

          Of late his neighbour, a widow

          befriended him when his wife passed away

          two ships docking to unload their grief

          a shoulder discreet though we sniggered.

          She went with motor neurone disease

          started in her head, met little resistance.

  Soon he was alone again.

 

He had a son, unpleasant sort.

Two grandsons who dealt in drugs openly.

 

It came as a shock when he died

      the news drifting in through the usual channels.

We thought his back was playing up

      but that was only part of it.

Then we noticed the uncollected milk.

 

          As I walk past the house the wall has gone

          windows left open, planning sticker on the door

          I think of the plague with a cross daubed there.

          His contents dumped where lawns and flowers grew

          flattened prior to big changes

          as if anybody would care.

 

In the thin rain I get up close:

a skip heavy with defeated memories

fridge cooker like sentries with their entrails

seeking mother earth.

The matrimonial mattress,

a gothic electric fire drenched that we sat around

with our drinks.

 

In terms of filial respect the scene ranked low

and tears pressed at my back with the disappointment of fate

a sort of dread at the resolution of life uprooted

polluted, and the wall gone

with its significant gate.