Here’s a poem of mine—randomly selected—from page 53 of The Smell of Tweed and Tobacco:
At the Window
A small inheritance from my brother
and what does it mean?
It means he loved me, found me needy
late in life
That he has stood at the window and moved on
and now I am the next in line
and will move on like him,
but without a legacy to leave
It means the small cold feeling
of a printer cartridge run out,
or unexpected electric bills,
need no longer turn me to panic
He smiles at me from a photograph,
the only one I have and puts his arms around me,
taking care of my careless self
Grins his grin, winks and leaves the window