He kept himself to himself.
Odd workmates called
Swapping stories about Ireland.
He religiously brought the milk in.
A mystery, the gap in the curtains couldn’t solve.
The ambulance took him.
He hadn’t touched a drop for years, save a small glass of Bristol Cream at Christmas.
Some said it was the diabetes from drinking the building sites out of him, others blamed a mistake of paracetamol, to ease arthritis.
He was always open necked.
A kid lied that he’d used his tie to hang himself from the light fitting.
His dead brother visited.
“It won’t be long now, go will ya, I don’t want you to see me like this.”
Doctors mucked about with his brain, Electroconvulsive Therapy.
He died the next morning.
Vanished like the breeze.
Leaving a son allergic to the world, and a pair of reading specs.
A mortuary doggy bag isn’t much to show for a life.
What happens to the soul?
Where does it go?
“I didn’t think Catholics agreed with burning,” said a neighbour.
“It sets the soul free,” said another.
“Fuck off that’s the Buddhists,” said someone else.
A flare up.
Who would have those stuffed birds “worth a few bob,” on the sideboard?
Mam on the brandy, caged by tablets.
“They won’t be happy until I’ve put my head in a gas oven.”
“We’ll light a candle forim, sweetheart.”
“Will ya learn to genuflect ya little bastard.”
Annie walked the cemetery to find her.
You won’t see this in the lonely-hearts column.
‘Broken people want someone to fix them.’
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