Boy
Twice a week after work I drive the forty miles
To bring you a bag laden with M & S food
My poor equivalent to love. You are welcome
For you are nearly blind and she is nearly deaf
Sat in your swivel chairs, you live in the study
The coldest room. Chosen to match your wintry moods
Classic FM blares, annoying you less than most
A bang on the window prompts a shuffled unlock
A suspicious look and then you greet me as ‘Boy’
The same soubriquet from six to sixty-seven
I unpack the bag in her ordered, stale kitchen.
Things crunch under my feet. There are peas in the sink
She eyes the pie with displeasure. He won’t like that
He won’t eat chicken. And he doesn’t like soft cheese
He wants mousetrap cheese. You can get it anywhere
Porridge sachets are too big, bread slices too thick
I explain the microwave again. She tenses
Top knob twist to half past. Press once. Wait for the ding
I have to use a knife to open the door, she says
Her tiny stricken hands store the useless foodstuffs
One day I bring my guitar, not a worthwhile skill
Not acknowledgeable, a silly indulgence
Perhaps, for the feckless, unlike your carpentry
I play some Christmas carols. O Joy to the world!
You warble a fine baritone. She looks confused
A different noise in her silent ears. She sits still
Her Repeat button off for a few slow moments
I re-tune the radio again – the controls
Somehow defy your jabbing analogue fingers
Time passed. You both died. I buried you as promised
And now I live where you lived – a lodger in time
Most of your stuff is gone. Fenced on eBay or chucked
I kept the Wee Willie Winkie candle holder
Your handsome photo in Fleet Air Arm uniform
The grandmother clock and the dark oak furniture
You made from ancient church pews all those years ago
I dream of you too often but do not miss you
I loved you according to your needs and my bond
A debt of familial sentiment. No more.