Kate

 

Kate

 

He wore a wig, Kate,

revealing perhaps a soupcon of pride

as it gnawed at him from the inside -

the chemo – not a great look, to be fair,

a bit chewed rat’s tail, off the rail,

unfitted and bought on spec.

There was nothing about him much bespoke,

we pointed, laughed at it

enjoyed a black country joke.

He was being thrifty,

well, you knew your dad,

maybe better than me,

although, I wonder, really.

Always reckoned Iceland food was a neat idea,

wrapped in thick plastic,

drank litre on litre of cheap bottled coke,

the own brand, dodgy supermarket kind.

Were we talking? Then, I mean.

Somehow, something had come between us,

you, or Peter, maybe –

my poor behaviour, chucking an empty can

onto the hard shoulder of the A30

that time we’d gone to see a punk band

in Exeter John Peel had been raving about.

I was pissed. Must’ve been my turn.

Sometimes it was his, believe me.

Then, he told me six months only.

Everything didn’t change, really,

he slipped away, I’m remembering football games,

times we took you to the horses,

holidays in France, Molineux, Les Conches,

and your mother kicking him out

with all his stuff in black plastic sacks

because once you’ve had black –

her words, not mine.

I miss him but I’m pleased to see you’re doing fine,

Sky Sports, glamour time, off the shoulder,

now that’s hat I call customized, a flash of flesh

and flaunting it all over press,

not an inch more, more an inch less,

and I wonder, looking back,

what he would’ve made of that?