Pops

We buried Pops in
his
Sunday Best
On that wet
November morn
I stood there in
MY
Sunday Best

Shattered

Tattered

Torn

“Private Viewing” an hour before
In the tawdry “Chapel of Hope”
He looked real queer
In all his gear

As I stood there all forlorn

The shuffling crowd
Never knew the man
Lying here
In State
To them he was just family
To me
He was
My mate
Or so I thought
Until I caught
The eye
Of his First Born
Hanging back
Discreetly

Face

All weathered and worn

Long forgotten memories
Bubbled up
From my dim and distant past

The rows
The dogs
Mr Plod

Schizophrenia

Dictated this man’s stone
Was duly cast

Out he went
Into
A world
Where no-one ever cared
Left behind
His family

Frightened

Embarrassed

Scared

I watched this man
So lonely
With his eyes
Fixed on the floor
Whilst
The family
Just ignored him
Behaviour
That I simply
Do abhor
So I wandered over
Slowly
Stretching out my
Hand
He raised his head
And looked
At me
United we did stand
I smiled at him gently
His pain
I could not deny
We held our hands together
And bade our Pops goodbye

Families are an unpredictable breed
Often trapped between want and need
Some are cast out
Some are cast in
Never quite knowing
When the story begins
I decided a long time ago
To opt out of the family
And go with the flow
All except Pops
For he was my rock
Kept my feet on the ground
My shield from life’s knocks

So I pledge this ode to the one man that cared
And will always honour the times that we shared