The funeral is two decades gone now
fragments of memory when hope was still rising
and waistlines could wear denim.
When everything was possible . . . no probable.
His life finished as his 20’s began
so much must have remained unvisited.
Did he know love
or only a dark corner and tangle of the back seat?
The world was the country of birth
not for him anticipation of the departure lounge
and long flight over empty ocean
no running with the bulls or Munich beer.
Or slow ragged march home
camping at friends or parents on return
shaking off memories of abandonment
folding youth away
pulling on the sober clothes of career.
We were the same age
almost the same letter
each school year began with rigid alphabetic proximity.
On the day age 40 arrived – a lone circling thought
he had been dead as many years as alive.
He didn’t see phones become clever
never knew flat screens and high-definition
For the back story click Backstage
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