Cigarette Case

How we get used to things.

The tarnished cigarette case

Bearing my initials,

Grimy in interstices,

Tobacco grained from cigarettes

Smoked forty years ago.

I forgot he used to smoke

In the time I just remember

When he ran and swam in the sea

And walked on his hands

On our suburban lawn -

By that flower bed he said

Was mine, but which I never dug.

I recall the scar which showed

Above his felted bathing trunks

Before the final swim.

He gave up smoking, swimming,

Walking on his hands (and other things)

Entering his long old age,

Watching from the touchline

From his armchair; soldiering on

Into forgetfulness,

Living clean (if you call it living)

With his rituals and his ulcer,

Laughing and joking - hold to that -

A gentle old man with nothing,

Nothing left to say.

He'd make a familiar joke,

Repeat some old cliché,

And roll his neckties in a drawer

Where they stay, to this very day.

©Terry Hodgson2020