John Friday

We-re not related in anyway,
That’s my first surprise.
Seeing him on the ward, the second:
laying flat in a bed, a very tall man,
going bald in a Middle Management way.
Smiling at me one minute, and then

'Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off!'

'It's not you,' his weary wife promised,
patting my hand, interested in the same
family name because it might be a way
to get through to John, stop the foul stream;
she was far beyond blushing now. 

'Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off!'

His great love, his wife told me, was - is -
the stars, astrology. He swore
by the star signs and looked for proof
in every-day actions. He knew every star
by names. Always looked up. Dreamt
of being in space. Floating. Weightless.

'Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off!'

Now his space was a bed far too small,
his feet poking out the end. A bleed
in the brain had crashed his spaceship.
A man who found the word toilet a disgrace,
now incontinent. A man who recognised his wife,
but not enough to tell her he loved her

ever again.