Feather

In anyone’s book my brother was a handsome guy.
Girlfriends bought him presents; black satin boxers
Tina’s beautiful silver Vespa, a golden age before
Night shift ovens and demons in WA.
We sat outside Tate Modern, last day of his last visit.
(Nothing like the smiling boys holding flea ridden monkeys
Scarborough 1972. Nurses at Hexham General
loved that photo, the only sealed bag item we had to sign for.)
He blew away a few dandelion clocks
said Rebecca Horn’s upside down piano
Concert for Anarchy was like a grouse with its guts hanging out
waving at rowers in the Great River Race
heading for Greenwich and if nothing else
the promise at least of a happy ending.

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