I was not happy with my last post. The poem was half formed. Here is a redraft.
lung wrecked in the wing back chair
my father was marooned in his house
he rewatched the programmes
he did not like the first time round
told me that there was a certain
safety in knowing what comes next
that brief whisper of exhalation
follows each creaking inhalation
his neural pathways began to short circuit
left in him sleeping an assisted sleep
until it is time to cast off
to sail into the deep
Some poems write themselves, others, like this one, require more work. I am happier with this version. No idea for a title. I think it should be something about a pause or a new cycle, but that would explain the poem before it is read...
Here is Louis Armstrong and Earl Hines with Weather Bird. This tune never fails to raise my spirits when I hear it.
Until next time.
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