Legacies
My father died and my mother,
Made tea.
We ate Dundee cake,
And sliced a life,
Into jobs and hobbies,
While the minister took notes,
And declined sugar lumps.
We invented a man,
Recognisable only to strangers.
Loving father, husband,
Always putting family first.
No wife beating,
Or penchant for Bell’s,
Or affairs with fucking tarts.
My father died and my mother,
Got her hair done.
We waited outside,
The hall at the Crem,
Impressed at the well-tuned,
Funeral mechanics,
Like a drive-in McDonalds.
Then we listened to lies,
And sang a song that he hated,
Before the fire consumed,
The evidence,
Knowing he shall live on forever,
In our hearts,
And in our memories.
That bastard,
Always had the last word.
Greg Mackie is a poet, a dreamer, and a self-confessed idiot. He is addicted to chocolate and crisps, and probably should not have cancelled his last two dental appointments. You are very welcome to follow him, especially if you know anything about toothaches, on twitter@FrenzyOfFlies