A Little Wave
I didn’t know that it would be the last
time that I’d see you. In that living room
where South Pacific droned to fifteen down-
cast silver heads. You receded as we
approached you, all six foot and eighty-six
years of you shrinking, the heavy blinks of
a napping cat. I saw blood on your mouth
that was only jam – a practical joke
gleaming on your lip, undetected for
the hours since breakfast. South Pacific
still blared on as we left. You acknowledged
us for the first time to wave a small goodbye.
Ours the only three names in the guestbook.
Ours the only tyres on the gravel outside.