Friday 13th March 2009 - Spring

He sits looking from his window
No spring in his step
He watches that bastard Pettigrew
Edging his lawn; crookedly!
He’ll be replanting his geraniums
Now the frost has withdrawn its offensive

Pettigrew catches him in his peripheral;
Stops the work and raises a hand
He doesn’t reply; can’t if he wanted too;
Wouldn’t acknowledge that prick anyway.
The stroke he suffered has paralysed him!
His right side no longer compliant
His left; twitchy and unserviceable
Unable to hold his penis for a piss;
The catheter painfully inserted by
That fucking she-male district nurse
As if she were putting a valve in a football,
Served to drain waste from his bladder

They talk about him as if he wasn’t there.
‘Can he hear?’ he hears them ask.
‘Does he understand?’
They bend down staring into his face
His eyes tell them to ‘fuck off’
He drools, wishing he could spit at them.
Rather than wasting it; dribbling onto
The towel draped over his shoulder;
Catching more undisciplined waste.

‘Friday 13th March 2009’
He’d never been superstitious
Hardly worth starting now; too late now!
He had dug up that old Beech root;
Had been threatening to for years!
Nearly five hours it had taken
The effort had left him trembling,
Shaking; breathing in gasps to
Replace the oxygen his heart
And brain demanded; too much!
Pettigrew hanging over the fence;
‘You won’t shift that’, he had voiced
It had driven him, empowered him
And ultimately nearly killed him.
Nearly? He WAS dead; as good as!

Best neighbourhood garden!
He can just about see the rosette from here.
It had been bright rose red and vibrant
Faded now to ‘Butterfly Weed’ orange
He should be planting those now;
Early spring for summer blooms.
He had bought the seeds to plant
In the place where to root had been.
They sat in their packet in the greenhouse.
His daughter brought him there daily,
Mostly when she came from work.
She thought he liked it; would leave
Him for an hour or two; sitting there
In the middle of what was once his kingdom.
Torture; pure unadulterated fucking torture!
The weeds sneaking a peak over
The rim of the empty window boxes
Laughing at him; watch me grow,
They goaded, fearless of their former assassin.

Spring; don’t make me bear the summer, he prays