All those years never knew what to do,
while you applied thumb screws
I stayed torniquet'd, in the stew.
One day I’ll have you helpless at last,
all things float past those who wait.
Sooner or later, I’ll shake your cold hand,
measure you top to toe.
A little less than five foot small,
shake out moth balls
from your one and only suit,
sling you on my shoulder
while you'll grow ever colder,
stiffer than a soldier on parade.
Slip inside “The Local",
snap myself a foto,
sit down in what once was the “snug”
stoked with hot coal
but is now
some bugger all room
that no one knows
what in hells name to do with.
Slam your old tool box on the bar.
“Two jars of your best,
for me and my star of a dad." I’d lie,
then drink both down
with a tear in each eye,
smooth down your hair
not once flinching
before your glacial stare.