Paul McGuigan 2013

the undertaker comes
to disinter his memories
each in a closed coffin
he lays around my house

I unscrew the lids
and we contemplate
the corpses, some decayed,
and others hardly dead

the bones in each box
have a sound track
Van Morrison, Coltrane, The Clash,
and where is Joe Strummer
when you need him

we eulogise
a man made good
who once sold class A’s
to an undercover D
and consign to the pit
a well-known man
whose good repute
is not worth spit

the bones of past love
lead to talk
of lives led not
in pursuit of happiness
but the pursuit of experience
warm skin, cold nights
high mountains, river gorges
and the sense to notice

I have to go
so he packs boxes
like Russian dolls
and leaves in the Lada