“I am sick”
the old man said
fingers interlocked
behind a hairy neck
as he rocked in a kitchen stool.
Arrogant son of a bitch
nowadays referred to more kindly
as “self reverential omnipotent”.
Paul loved his style
even more than the secondhand suit
he had from Armani.
His journeys to charity shops
were retail adventures
in the stories he expounded to strangers
on anthropological field trips
to pubs
in search of the community
where he’d be appreciated.
Because he was sick to himself
he made a difference
to the universe.
Personal pride in his sickness
his tombstone he designed.
It would say
“Here lies one sick man
– look up to him“.
From Bath to Cork with baby Grace 