The Hospice

Photo by mali maeder on Pexels.com
The Hospice

"Where is your neighbour?"
"Passed away, in the night."
"Bloody hell, that is awful!"
"Why, I'm alright."

"I got his sausage,
pinched from his plate."
"Sweet Jesus, dad,
he was your mate!"

"It was no use to him,
so why shouldn't I?"
Defiant, the look
left me wondering why

does it boil down to this?
We steal from the dead,
wait till they're gone
so that we can be fed.

Then it occurred,
that really he cared,
his bedside bravado,
meant he was scared.

The following morning,
my father had passed.
Who'd got his sausage,
I reflected, downcast.

6 Comments on “The Hospice

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