away with the trumpets

I remember backyard penalty shoot outs…
… watching cricket

before he turned to stone
… and stopped talking
to a world spinning around him

so he slumped back
to watch the mirage of colours and shapes
… a fussy dance
of inaudible nurses or grandkids
… grey waiting rooms
or where ever they pushed him next

Dad in those days …
always talked pills and shots
… tautly fumbling
watching a muted TV, whilst on hold
… bloody care home

He smiled sometimes whilst nursing
… a cheeky half
down the Fox and Newt beer garden
… just a weak one
Dad rolled him in frame

… ‘smile Tobes… smile Dad’


his daft straw hat…

Dad passed me a box of his medals
… He was “a hero”
fought ‘right out on the frontline…’

… Dad had explained

as he barely tapped his fingers to…

Miles Davis, Kind Of Blue

happening to drift from a passing car
… his fave So What?
he gave the car a thumbs up…

… It happened then…

the daft hat flew straight on up
… a sudden gust
dad took off after it

in the distance
Dad gave up and stood
… to watch the hat
drift and bounce into the breeze

flying away with the trumpet I swear he said …

‘Do a little good Tobes

… a little good’

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