Elizabeth Bartlett
The Way He Had
In memoriam James Bartlett 1909-1986
When you rang to say
that James was dead
I thought of climbing
into his head and shaking him
awake, pulling back
the fag-scorched blankets
from the iron bed.
Hero and lover, his blazer
thrown upon a chair,
his tennis racquets
in the shed,
ash in his hair.
I thought I’d marry
someone like Jim,
but there was nobody
quite like him.
When you rang to say
the time would be
eleven and the day
was fixed
I thought of the way
he used to play
the pub piano
in our front parlour.
Tickling the ivories
was a thirties phrase.
He was a thirties man,
when I was a lonely kid
and he was a college boy.
I remember Jim,
and the way he had
with him.
Page(s) 43
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