scrapbook

how he’d cycle off to work on his old Raleigh
clicking through the little gears one two three
the sprung saddle creaking as he worked his knees

how he’d sigh as he slowly sawed through his food
every mouthful methodically chewed
the ketchup bottle tightly screwed

how he took up skipping to lose some weight
and the vibrations made the whole house shake
as he thumped up and down by the bolted gate

how he’d make a strangled, high-pitched cry
and squeeze small tears from the slots of his eyes
in the sitting room on Saturday for Morecambe & Wise

how he’d mutter to himself and say I don’t know
staring at the garden from the kitchen window
sipping warm tea in a Sunday limbo

and now he’s gone but the bike’s still there
the bolted gate, the kitchen chair
the scraps we leave when we disappear

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