Your hug is huge
unlike the rest of you –
which is rather small.
You loved to run as a kid.
Told us about ‘that race’
when the big six footer beat you by a hair
and the whole family cheered
‘Best bloody footrace we ever saw.’
I stroke your hair
(still auburn thick at fifty seven)
and listen to your eyes
as they try to hide.
slurs just a little
‘You’d never know’
and your long fingers
hardly shake at all.
‘You look so fit’
they all told you at the party.
But you don’t, do you?
Not a bit.
back to Queensland.
Sad about the guitar.
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Comments about this poem (Bloody Parkinson's by Alison Cassidy )
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