Life in a back pocket

Your passing is spanned by my wallet.

John Paul is nestled

behind your smiling face

cut out from your blue badge(1);

two Saints in waiting.

There’s an older black-and-white photo

from when we first met.


A tatty card off a lawn

says ‘All my love, Mike xx.’

It explained dying roses.


A new bank card, with money

to spread thinly, is unscratched.

Not many notes

thicken this German leather.

A credit card forms a clear imprint.

Conversely there’s a receipt

for a sold, prestigious watch.


That CSO’s(2) number’s there

that we never considered

when it was needed,

and a Beefeater points card

filled to your arteries’ peril.


Unison’s presence reminds me

of the days I worked, and a Cex card

of days I sold to try and keep afloat

with your help.

Then there’s my father’s two prayers,

which made us weep

after the strewing.

   * * *

(1)  Disabled person’s parking badge

(2)  Community support officer