For a father.

The humble house existed    
beneath peeling exterior walls      
and two inches of besieging ivy. My suitcase dropped.      
I swallowed an ache while the walls stank out        
     
perspiring melancholy. A sombre agony, one I      
quickly remembered.      
A familiar buzz played until every moth was      
a burnt out star      
     
laying beneath the canopy      
that offered shelter,      
between fallen beams.      
Dad's war days had run      
     
their course and we'd no purpose      
for the evacuation home now      
yet the empire of darkness stayed      
and with it so did he.      
     
The picture of dementia,      
biting Onychomycosis-infected nails      
down to the bone      
and scratching at Eczema      
     
plaguing old flesh.      
Bile collected in my throat that Sunday.      
Nothing less than a conscience, I was sure.      
The apocalypse of self-absorption makes a      
     
rare appearance, with me.      
From time to time it raises a weary head      
and it's lazy eye stares at me.      
The Devil waves in my memorable smirk.      
     
I stole your sorrows,      
poured two tumblers of Whiskey,      
lit a fire, cleared the dust. I busied myself      
and counted

down

hours.      
     
Every mumble was incoherent      
but I replied      
with strands of information      
your dark walls never dated.      
     
In the delicate, hazel light
we stared at the overgrowth,      
from wicker rocking chairs I bought
four Spring's ago. You smoked      

cigars and I sang gently. It still
smells stale as I treasure the last
days of a desperate sinner, lost
in smog, after the Blitz.