with stripes, hiding,
not wanting to be wrenched
from between sheet and mattress.
His world seems drenched
in objects that began lives
long ago, before his lifes sentence.
Trousers frayed, barely held up,
belt with extra holes needled in,
while he'll stay vain,
thin as a pin to the end.
At the back of the top shelf
in the tall boy, a ridiculous wig,
paid for “On H.P.”
that waved freely on top of his head,
while he solemnly paraded his wife
around ballroom places.
Gaunt face, sucked in cheeks,
Belsen body, smooth bottomed shoes
that brought him down, cracked the ice
and his hip joint, put him at the point
of disappearing, yet back he came,
and made me love him once again.
When the end does finally come,
he’ll fall off his spade, watering
while mowing, into his pit,
protesting between clenched teeth,
while sucking his pipe,
smoke seeping skywards from his box;
while I, not believing he is mute
will salute through silent tears