Lately, I have been thinking of him, a lot. The bench underneath the tree where he used to seat is empty and the tree is now bare, leafless.
Sometimes, I take a peak at the cafeteria and thinking that I might see him there, eating without the help of teeth. How can he possible eat without any choppers?
It’s time for me to pull out the books of poems he generously gave to me, read some and share some to you as promised. I just noticed the dedication:
Heaven has no humour like
A woman in love with English
To remind you of what I shared with you before, you may read it here.
Small Culture ~ poem by Ian Rudkin
You can’t assume that a woman is
Supposed to know who you are. A woman
Doesn’t have to like men but she does
Because she is a woman. Honest likes honest.
Brutality preys on a good woman’s soul
Man’s good is not quantity. Human good
Is a humour about fallibility. You can’t
Get free-flowing food if you can’t see it.
People who want ordinary food naturally pay
Some money. Poets thus are really wise to
Share their thoughts with their friends and
Their books with people who want ordinary books.
The sign of an amateur is to have
Too high a regard for success. It is good
To value small successes. That way you have
The idea of what pleases — that is, directness.
He wore the same pants, the same shirt and the same jacket. Walking around, holding his waist bands so that his pants won’t fall. Did he forget to wear his belt, again?
I miss his presence.