A Great Grandad
Rattling pans clashing in their daily
saucepan broil, metallic solid disguises
for life, set on low heat. And you almost dead,
with your transparent skin, and cardigan
buttoned to the last.
Your indignant dominoes,
waiting for a tip.
And that sickly sweet Smell of Death.
Yes Oh yes
I now know the smell of death, it’s similar to a goat cheese topping
on a posh piece of nosh, perhaps brazed halibut, on a bed of asparagus.
Yes that is the smell of death my friend, I’m sure.
Or bubbling mutton, still trendy with the dying.
Or mucus stained armchairs.
Or old dog carpets.
Or brill creamed scalps, on greasy liver spot heads.