Big Phil Poem by Greg Costello

The last time I saw Big Phil alive was through a camera lens,
Jubilant Royal Ascot scenes filling my Samsung screen.
Phil was striding purposefully, chest puffed with pride,
His equine heroine Jenny, clip-clopping wearily alongside.
Moments before she had courageously captured the Ascot Stakes.
In the sport of kings, a coronation of the common man.

There was nothing Phil liked more than having a cut,
But to swell the suit pockets with sterling, at the home of British racing,
Set his patriotic pulse agallop.
Phil stood for photos, but not on ceremony,
The absence of a top or tails, an unsaid swipe at those propigating pomp.
Ascot was for studying raceform, not how to conform.

The next time I saw Phil he would be similarly suited,
Though now laying motionless in an open, heaven bound crate,
The lacquered lid standing propped against the wall,
Loitering like some coffin corner boy.
A peppercorn conga of rosary beads
Snaked around his bleached and frigid hands.

Friends of varying degrees of familiarity flowed through the house,
Some unsure of names, all unsure of what to say.
Phil's children grimaced and strained to metabolize well wishes.
His beleaguered wife teetered, close to collapse,
Left unbolstered and bereft;
Their unbreakable union, broken.

I stood moist faced, dry mouthed,
Watched my Dad laying there, watched myself laying there
And felt guilty for these disloyal, encroaching thoughts.
I timidly kissed Phil's porcelain forehead,
And grappled to find words of meaning,
That might offer hope and condolence.

Two days later we would say our final goodbye,
Talk of Phil's indelibleness and reach,
Dolefully smile at familial insights.
Shy of sixty, shorn of his twilight,
A shamefully premature 'Supersaint'.
R.I.P. Philip Deans 1957-2016