A Wake

Just one wrinkled face
Greets me without smiles
Withered hair carefully coiffed
Like back combed steel
A top a head
Experienced and
Irritated at life
Longing for death
Why do I survive to
Greet my mirror

Good morning
And my reflection
Soundlessly echoes back
I have all my own teeth you know
Yellow stumps pitted
With the detritus of
Good Living
Matt in the sunlight
Lines from lip to nose
Only serve as one more blight

Turning away from the mirror
I notice there are no cracks in it
As I retreat
Excitement wells as The Times
Drops through the letter box
Obituaries first
Who have I outlived
Satisfied I muse
That living still
Is not something I choose.

Another day another week
Another month, year or decade
Who knows how long
Or how I long to know
The Stannah Chair lift
Remains stationary
At the foot of the stair
Suppose I dial 999
More excitement wells
Not engaged this line

Hello, Hello, Gladys here
My sister Muriel seems unwell
She’s still in bed, very still
She’s younger than me you know
What – No – Not too quick
I don’t think she’s just sick
Oh, and can you tell me
Of a good undertaker
And whilst you’re at it
For the wake – a good baker

Spirals of smoke wreathe the sky
Clouds pirouette dance and fly
Birds on the wing don’t hear
The choir sing without cheer
Muriel was always precocious
Always wanted to be first
Now I’m left an aged seer
Desert eyes can’t cry
For a sister once dear
Has beaten me again – to die.

1997