He dressed eccentrically at the most –
striped trousers and a top hat bowler.
And a long coat and gaudy shirt.
His eyeglasses would swing on a chain,
and his cane would hang from a limp arm.
The good doctor, his old-fashioned kindness
until the end, the liquor consuming him
and the water filling his lungs
in the Summer of 1943,
the bridge, a vantage point for his despair
and the snuff box from his father,
safe and secure in his long coat pocket.