At the undertakers
when the door rattled,
I knew it was dad
demanding a cheap coffin.
I ignored him when he said
at that price he would prefer
to be hung on the washing line
and let the birds do the work.
He insisted both metal hips
should be weighed-in,
they wouldn’t be any use
where he was going.
I told him, forget it,
he was being cremated.
But I did what he said
when it came to the wake.
He’s forever telling me
I need to get a grip,
now he’s started on the kids
who’ve had enough of him
switching off the lights,
moaning on about Brexit
and the rising cost of living.
It’s their life they say.
I told him he’s joking
if he thinks he can
tell me what to do
at my age. I know
my own mind.
About time he says;
he has better things
to be getting on with.
First published in the Manchester Anthology 2019
Shirley-Anne Kennedy 