The Remembrist

[smokingboot]

He called himself a patriot
whiskey in his coffee
nicotine thumbed, while I fried eggs for him.

'You wouldn't understand
It's in the blood, it's the lines
on the palm of my hand,

what I thought I was
and I had names for everything,
I breathed them in,

like the smell of hay
gathered in a kind country,
apples fermenting in a shed,

wood-creaking pubs and church bells
rung by ghosts of the weekend.'
He twisted his signet ring as he ate,

saying 'don't hate me, stranger.'
I left him to grow grey
as the newspapers piled by his door.