Heaven

Poem by Steve Day

The final man is too good a friend
to let me down without the sound
of barking madness crowning every
news bulletin with the hounds of heaven.

He has lost sight of the empty place
on the sofa, saying it is beyond
his powers to speak of such things.
Her passing shot too fast a blast,
too dark to see how she left him
in those final days.
Cancer clings to the corpse even as
name and number are erased.
The roar in this knowledge came ranting
like a mad anarchist.

The final man knows isolation
gives away the very best of himself.
Quietly he tells me, the missing piece
can only be found in walking the dog
in early evening
along the tow path beside the canal.

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