Richard George

Inheriting

My father lives in my dreams now:
In death he is half a stranger,
Professional, like my doctor.
He has left me behind, moved on.

So I retire, as he did,
To hobbies and memorabilia.
I cultivate his short fuse,
His humour, his generosity:
I drink as much as he smoked
And smuggle the bottles home
In his number-coded briefcase.
I shall die like him, before sixty:
I fear it no longer.
It is part of the family.

Poem Submitted: Saturday, April 2, 2005

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Comments about Inheriting by Richard George

  • Linda Preston (4/2/2005 3:16:00 PM)

    I like father poems - now I can see the connection with Sylvia Plath - all that think with Otto. Nice one. Think I'll give it a ten

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  • Michael Shepherd (4/2/2005 2:01:00 PM)

    Congratulations from your coincidential neighbour in this poetic window-seat! And a hope that sixty finds you alive and imbibing a little more than moderation...

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Read poems about / on: family, father, fear, home, death, dream