Wednesday, December 17, 2008

Looks like rain.

I don't know whether
I am nervous
about seeing my father
who I have not seen for
twenty years or more
(do I shake his hand?
he's crying - it's awkward)
or frightened
of standing again
amongst the graves
opening that same
old wound
or worse
the secret voice
that only I can hear
no feelings at all
I'm here with the dead
with people I don't know
I feel

I wonder where I can smoke,
I'll think
as I stare up at the clouds
waiting for the inevitable

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