It's National Poetry Day, so I finished a draft of something I started a few months back.

  Pass Notes

When I'm not in the room with you, you're your old self. Tall and indomitable. Resolute of purpose. A firm handshake, look 'em dead in the eye. In the car I listen to the radio, and think you'd like this show.

When the lady in the next room goes, the sadness, like soot falling down a chimney, billows out across the corridor and settles for a while, Hanging in the air along with her daughters' words: "She's gone." It's only a few days before it's your turn and ours.

Since then,

Mum's face as she gave me the watch you wore every day Clutching it in her hand and mine, "Be a dreamer of dreams," she said. "A man among men, and walk the path with curiosity and joy." There's nothing more to say, it's the most beautiful quest.

Along with the small change and the comb you always kept in the pocket of your trousers, there's an old tin with a handful of fuses, radiator keys and old batteries in your drawer. I find a big list of stories and ideas, the things that you liked. I listen to your old country and western tapes in the car, wear your coat.

I'm not in the room with you, but echoes are everywhere. I try to at least act like I know what I'm doing. It's all there in how we live our lives: A firm handshake, look 'em dead in the eye. In the car I listen to the radio, and find more things you'd like.

  © me, 2012