BETWEEN MEN.

A FATHER TALKS TO HIS DEAD SON.

There is that memory
of you, my son,
at the Tate Modern;
us looking around
at the art in our quiet way,
you with your keen eye
taking it all in,
and I beside you hoping
you liked the modern stuff
as I did.

But you are gone,
stolen by death,
and I think
of the Tate and you
and the art seen,
and the drinks afterwards
in that small coffee house
with high prices.

You talked
not of the art
we'd seen,
but of your work
and how things ran,
and what was done and not.

Miss you,
my son,
miss you
being around,
miss your humour,
with your wit,
miss your laughter,
and your large eyed gaze,
and your soft talk,
and the hugs we gave
now and then,
not the sloppy kind,
but that between men.