Heart    by  William Fox

Grandpa, having had his heart attack, my
aunts were keen to say he'd never be
seen winching the boat ashore again,
rather becoming a kitchen diplomat for
several people such as mum and dad who
through the sixties never put a cigarette in
their hands and kept the courting method
alive in the hills of Ivanhoe. I've seen
where you rode tires down the empty
antiseptic streets prone to slow black & white
pans and gravel, branches, a leaf playing the
classic voiceover assuring the suburbs remain
hazed anonymous. Eighteen years and thankfully
I've no idea of anything except a domestic
timetable and my desk light running late,
luring memories of my farming uncle, awake
before dawn for beers and dad - scrambled
clouds and occasional sun - warns of the
damage to your health but I know a good
read when I see one.

© William Fox