Visit

 

You’ve clearly had it, and my duty quickly done

I farewell awkwardly and step back out to where

your wife as thin as weeks of worry sits alone

with crumpled Kleenex in her velvet armchair,

 

apologise for something, smile and leave. The world goes on

and will do after we poor grave-sized things

have left for Thornhill in that weeping limousine,

when caterers have cleared the pies and chicken wings

 

and mates who thought they ought to and brought in

the Echo or the landlord’s latest daft one-liner

have drawn new team lists up for skittles nights in town.

Momentous things up close can turn out minor

 

as funeral directors in a back room sipping tea

before the next hearse sighs along the bitumen and brakes

beside the tulips in the rain, and this is how it has to be

or how is that same someone dear who sat for weeks

 

next door beside an ashtray with the TV down

to pack your washed and ironed shirts for Age Concern,

advertise your fishing rods and honky-tonk LPs, then

go on coach tours, take up bingo again.