i.m. HPW, 7 May 1916 – 14 March 1986
Sometimes he would come home in time to run
in the park in his old black track suit, but
more often it was a walk round the block.
With no time it was merely kicking the bar.
The first I would do grudgingly. OK.
The second I might enjoy on a good day.
The last I would gladly take with him.
It was maybe a hundred yards one way,
turn around, a hundred yards the other.
Sometimes it was silent, which was fine.
Sometimes it was How was your day? Fine too.
I liked best when he told me about his day.
But there are never enough OKs
And never enough good days.