GB – Reposed, 2013

Hey, remember that guy?

You know, the one you shared an office with,

Briefly.

The one you antagonised at first

(Surprise),

But with whom you became,

If not friends,

Then friendly. No, more than that,

Fellow travellers, right?

 

Remember?

You had the same number of kids.

He smoked too.

Liked to make things out of wood

But didn’t like to share too deeply.

Kept his work and private life

Apart.

But you were, probably, the closest thing he had to a friend.

There, anyway.

 

Yes?

 

You smiled, shook hands whenever you met;

Which was often.

Lobby.

Corridor.

Lift.

Restaurant.

Europa.

“Good morning, my dear”

 

You liked one another.

Shared a comical cynicism

And a stupid belief in truth and goodness,

Though he was Belgian.

 

He retired early, only 55.

Lucky bastard.

Fat pension and a nice payoff.

Wanted to start afresh with his wife,

Maybe move back to Argentina.

See the pampas again.

Make beautiful things.

 

He died.

 

One month after he left work.

Just stopped living.

Switched off one day.

No warning,

Blam.

 

If god only takes the good ones early,

Is it wrong to hope I’m bad?