Inheriting - Poem by Richard George
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.
Comments about Inheriting by Richard George
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
- Still I RiseMaya Angelou
- The Road Not TakenRobert Frost
- If You Forget MePablo Neruda
- DreamsLangston Hughes
- Annabel LeeEdgar Allan Poe
- Stopping By Woods On A Snowy EveningRobert Frost
- IfRudyard Kipling
- Do Not Stand At My Grave And WeepMary Elizabeth Frye
- I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love YouPablo Neruda
- TelevisionRoald Dahl