How did it happen?
I woke up, and there he was, in my bed.
Wearing those shabby pyjamas my mother complained about
You know, patched, holed, seen better years.
And do you know what the bastard did next?
He took over my shaving mirror.
There he was, staring back at me.
The grey hair, the bushy eyebrows, the wrinkles
The gall of the man.
Well I said, I’m not standing for this,
So I stumbled down the stairs
Wobbled to my chair and spilled my tea.
Just like Dad did.
Reflections on life in Poetry and Prose. 