Sooner or later it is our own turn at the window.
At the WindowA small inheritance from my brother
and what does it mean?
It means he loved me, found me needy
late in life
That he has stood at the window and moved on
and now I am the next in line
and will move on like him,
but without a legacy to leave
It means the small cold feeling
of a printer cartridge run out,
or unexpected electric-bills,
need no longer turn me to panic
He smiles at me from a photograph,
the only one I have and puts his arm around me,
taking care of my careless self
Grins his grin, winks and leaves the window
This poem is included in
THE SMELL OF TWEED
available here in print
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