Brooklyn

Its an untidy little family, those three missed trains, when you left for Cleveland, was is it only a wish to share, that love should remain, alive at the vanished home, or are those lines too neat, in the wine you gave away, after singing in the streets, beyond the frosted glare, your bloodless eyes in winter rain, smoke blowing off your hair, wrapped around you like Teralyne, you’ll never change, our Ma used to say, a bed in the hospice scheme, orderlies rush with trays, no more whistles of childhood dreams, you laugh just the same.