In a dirty, dingy dive, in a dire haze of old memories, I sit with Uncle Patrick, dead quiet as always, with his Campari and Soda, to soothe his sad loneliness, and thoughts of life in disorder.
That’s all he ever mumbled about, at our local in town, our kind of joint, sticky underfoot, tables and walls alike. It was a dodgy place, only making it through hard times selling cheap wine and playing scratched vinyl on broken turntables with cigarette burns. Yes, the sticky joints, growing up on Saturday afternoons, drinking Coca-Cola for each of his tipples.
Now I sit and think of him in the same old place, vinyl replaced by compact disc, record player by Jukebox. He will always be with me on a day like today, cold, and miserable, alone with my Campari and Soda, loneliness and change when you least expect it, and thoughts of life in disorder.
his passing not forgotten,
sitting in his chair.