I DESTROY THE EVIDENCE

Posted by Admin on Sunday, 25th January 2009, 00:00

A letter to his mother from
a rogue – a plea for cash to plug
the gap his ‘borrowing’ had left
in slate-club funds – the paper cheap,
the writing slack, in keeping with
the man.
I read again, and visualised
his smooth and weak-chinned face
(he shaved but once a week), the full
and flaccid lips with Player’s fag
a-pout – the narrow collar, white and starched,
the jaunty cap, the jutting tie,
the fifty-shilling suit.
Again I mused upon that strange
disparity one finds between
fraternal kin – the other son
I knew to be reliable –
a pattern somewhat prim.
No isolated case this call
for help, no solitary lapse
from grace – then why, I asked myself,
did he who caused the worry and
the tears remain the favoured one?
Unanswered there, that none might learn
a secret solely mine, and all
might rest in peace, I tore
the letter into shreds.

T. C. Hudson

© T. C. Hudson.

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