Happy birthday, John.

On our way back home
we could pass Trafalgar Studio
its owner seems alone
his life is electricity bills and prose
we could buy chestnuts
and nibble them on our way
it never was just bruises & cuts
but it's better to call it a day.
My head is on your shoulder
and the ring is on my finger
your breath is like smoulder
and there's no time to linger,
we stop near the cemetery at last
have no petrol and no cash
in the rear-window I see past
and all the people you did smash.
I go to your grave.
You could be seventy four,
with a close shave
you could open me the door
and be just like my father
what is left is your poetry
given me by my own father
I put a book on my knee
and read your words
as if stroking a crippled kitten
not minding its warts
and all the bullshit you've written.
(My name could be Doris
and I could get my oats!)
My fluffy spider named Boris
also knows all your music notes,
now I have to sit in my car
pretending that you are somewhere there
and like in a trite film noire
driving & smoking & drinking somewhere there.
come on, you, stargazer, birdwatcher,
grass-roller, truffle-hunter, stone-thrower,
come over me and be a butcher
come over your ghost-follower,
what is left is to weed the garden
in a greenery no one's alone
I know,
you might appear all of a sudden
on our way back home.