Death in the Time of Brexit
Iím minding Trev while our wives go shopping.
Babysitting, they call it, and Trev is nodding
his head thatís growing too big for his body,
face red and puffy, as if heís been caught
at the scene of a crime in someone elseís clothing.
Itís all the drugs that he takes
in the battle against his exotic form of cancer
and the newly found cerebral tumour.
Now he spends his days flat on the sofa
wearing a replica kit, watching sports,
checking the progress of Brexit talks and trying
to take back control of his bowels.
He voted Remain, but heíll be leaving anyway,
having run out of second opinions.
So to give Trev something to savour,
he and I have a secret wager.
Trev pretends to think heíll live to see Brexit,
Iím betting that heíll peg out before it.
A monkey rests on the outcome
to give Trev an added incentive.
But the deal has brought ambivalence
and our friendshipís become complicated;
sometimes Iím wishing he wonít make it
while Trev is impatient for Brexit.
What bonded us together now pulls us apart,
and we argue about whether to call the bet off.
Oh shit! says Trev, as he follows through a fart.
Weíre agreed on the need for a backstop.
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Raymond Miller
would be pleased to hear them.