Waiting for the Cats of the Ferryman
in memory of David Tipton, writer, translator, editor, publisher and gambler

I thought I saw him in Barcelona,
glancing doubtfully upwards at Gaudi's spires.
He no longer rings in testy reaction to the news,
or to tell me something he told before.
He gave up swimming a mile a day,
cooking for friends and answering the phone.
Sitting out his days in a bare-boarded room,
smoking by the window, ear to the door,
rinsing his mouth with tinned foam,
the taste of brown Britannias on his tongue.
Waiting for the cats or the Ferryman
to fetch him home.

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Copyright © 2019 Jim Greenhalf All rights reserved
from Breakfast at Wetherspoons
Smokestack Books
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission