death of you

POW! a man

like me but

much younger, out-

gunned, commandeered.

 

I’d cut you

down from the suffering

which humbles the spirit.

 

You never recover.

In London, wait;

take orders, bow & later,

alone with yourself,

feel like a tool, &

struck down at 50.

You gave your wife

 

6 children & 1 more

to your girlfriend: 7 is

my number.

 

It broke you.

6 thoughts on “death of you”

    1. thanks Peter.
      occasionally i get to thinking about my natural father, who i saw a bunch of times when i was an infant, but can barely remember. he’s the pow of the poem – on the isle of wight, so i was told (much older than my mother). But, as i say, i struggled with it. (might re-visit the poem to improve)

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