There are things I’d like to ask you.
Like how did you do it? How did you get it over the line?
On those days when it seemed that things could go either way.
Were you scared? Where did you find a refuge?
Did you enjoy it, sometimes?
I’d ask, selfishly, because I want to map my progress against yours –
The next generation pushes things forward, doesn’t it?
But I won’t be asking those questions.
I have no idea where you are, though I hope it’s somewhere good.
I try to picture you there and – in moments – I can,
Sitting, reading a newspaper, or reaching for your coat before leaving for town.
But I can’t ask you about these things
That come upon me in traffic, or in the moments before sleep,
Or when walking down a street, halfway lost.