'He was with me at the funeral, Alan was.'
Nobody has the heart to tell her
that what she remembers is a dream.
In a relentless fever she works the seam,
'I don't know what I would have done
without him there. He's a good son.
Jack was ever so proud of him.'
To those coming on shift at handover time:
'She thinks it was her husband who died,
not her son Alan, in that car.
Her husband Jack died years ago.
Best go along with her, at least for now.
Be careful lifting her, she cracked three ribs
in the fall she had the night she heard.'
John Garth Raubenheimer
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/in-the-home/
