Roses pruned, we see his house clearly; as they grow, our view obscured. We meet at a Christmas street party, exchange pleasantries in passing. Away all day playing golf, his implication of a certain ‘naughtiness’ creates unease, hampers connection.

from my chair
his front door
another country

Time and deterioration, he drives his car; forgets where he’s parked, comes home in a taxi. Alzheimers, other terminal diseases reduce him, though he admits only to a ‘game knee’.

He’s in Respite now, carers hoping to keep him there.

Could we have known him, crossed the road, bridged the bitumen? We remember unusual conversations, inexplicable oddities, vagueness.

gum tree
shedding bark
the letterbox empty