I’m Tired of All This Political Writing at the Moment

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