He flings my book at the living room wall with a hollering
You're always fucking reading! me wondering with schizoid
irrelevance what page it would land at, stare at the butler sink,
tin bath on the fence by the toilet. Settles on his chair looking
like a rabbit eating cabbage, bends his knife to harvest the gravy
lips tighten, swallows, leans back, wavy hair, tiny eyes that look
surprised when a joke is explained, East Ender, always buys a round
You're as good as Charlie prods mum. Takes me to Brick Lane
smug smiles when he grabs a bargain, endless Guvs to the landlord
postman, everyone, explosive fist once denting our biscuit tin,
photos of army days in India, tells me to get a trade in yer 'ands
I start an apprenticeship he never sees me finish, and yesterday
clearing out my life before I move, find the same volume,
dog-eared, torn, and in the early morning mist by his grave
place it carefully on the wet grass like a book of remembrance.