The man next door was dead for days
before police undid the latch
and climbed the stairs to his bed,
a bottle empty of his first wife’s pain relief
and garbled scribble to travelling spouse
‘…you have your way and I mine…’
Boisterous and full of his garden schemes
Tom had driven us twice
to reach and sweep at Tai Chi.
His car did not appear again.
‘See you round’
taped to the sunroom door.
A week before we’re seated in a pub
to hear ‘Ukulele Junction’, have a beer,
rambling through cheerful gab.
Somehow I mention that I pray.
‘You pray, I meditate.’ he said.
© Steve Isham June 2006