Not then, not now.

The quare fella who

never owned a tie to hang himself with

loved summer.

“You can’t have butterflies without caterpillars.”

He kept himself to himself.

Blessed cabbages.

Talked to dogs.

Religiously brought the milk in.

Institutions

squeaky plimsolls on polished floors

disinfectant

and shit

mucked around with his brain.

Said it was diabetes from drinking away Wexford.

He hadn’t touched a drop for years.

Others blamed a mistake of paracetamol, to ease hod carrier’s shoulder.

He vanished like the breeze.

Leaving his reading specs

and

an allergic to the world son.

At the wake

ill-fitting men

in

ill-fitting suits.

“Ashes to ashes dust to dust

if God won’t have yous the divil must.”

A flare-up.

“I didn’t think Catholics agreed with burning.”

“ah, it sets the soul free.”

“Fuck off, that’s the Buddhists.”

True

pure

grief

is

unspeakable.

It cannot be articulated.

Not then

Not now.