by steve denehan

Parkinson’s got her, they said

the first to see me naked

innocently

as she cleaned her bedroom window

two doors down

while I stripped and scrubbed

beach sand from myself

Parkinson’s got her

said with a touch of anger

not true of course

she lived years with it

saw the world with it

cuddled her grandchildren with it

Parkinson’s did not get her

what got her

was Parkinson’s and time

I lost a friend to cancer

after the funeral we stood

old footballers

awkwardly, under a sycamore tree

somebody mentioned

that he was a flyer on the pitch

but that you can’t outrun

the big C

I said nothing, but thought

that he didn’t try to outrun it

that the cancer was a part of him

a constant companion

that he worked with

slept with

ate his breakfast with

that cancer didn’t kill him

what killed him

was cancer and time

time, that wily dog

rage and blame beading on its coat

falling to ripple dark puddles

time, hiding in mantelpiece carriage clocks

behind ornate watch faces

in the workings of railway platform displays

time, that sneering ghost

who we will meet

face to face

just once