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Wednesday, 15 February 2012


He lived upstairs with his three sisters,
a thin, bald man with a red face.
I would see him maybe once a week,
strange that I never heard him speak.

The night he died my mother helped
to treat his unstoppable bleeding leg.
I think he suffered in characteristic silence,
no pained words for his nursing audience.

For a while I missed the occasional nods
from one of life's peculiar bods.

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