Bill Smith


John Says

John says I should move into sheltered accommodation
John says he's not happy with my situation
John says I'm a danger, a danger to myself
John says at the very least I should get some help

Rising from the dampness of a cold, cold bed
Stands on the letter three times read
Chink of medals on the pinstripe the suit slept in
Kitchen curtains drawn, faded wearing thin
Last nights frost covers a shroud of white
Paw prints on the wall show a visitor in the night
Dripping tap beats a rhythm in tandem with his heart
Beams a boyish smile with an early morning fart
Fills a kettle old, sets it on the gas
Grips the cooker edges, waits for the pain to pass

John says he loves me, John says he cares
John says I need the money, John says sell the shares
John says he'd help, if only he could
John says he's my only, living flesh and blood

Whistle from the kettle breaks a silence loud
Tears on a cheek, recall a moment once stood proud
Hand clasps medals, still worn with pride
Letter on the floor, the future cannot hide
Kettle poured to pot, leaves turn to brew
Thoughts turn to everyone, everyone he ever knew
Curdled milk to sink, brewed pot to cup
Just the one sugar, that John says is enough

John says see a Doctor, John says get some rest
John says listen to me, John says he knows best
John says sell the pictures, sell mums gems and rings
John had no idea, but John says lots of things

Old bones shuffle to table, checked slippers trip on matt
Head hits floor with vengeance, tea to scalded cat
Blood flows from head, eyes roll to close
Grim reaper stands by waiting, for the curl of toes
Life flashes quickly, before eyes in electric strobe
Signs of life drip slowly, to floor from stained ear lobe
Last thought shouts loud, as life ebbs away
Oh dear, dear, what will John say?

Submitted: Sunday, January 08, 2006

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