The Death of a Salesman

He was my Best Friend Rachel's Dad
And had no other name
He took us to the swimming baths
Then drove us home again
(Well, that was on the other weeks
When we had time to blame
The parents, parenting our kin,
As In-Laws hogged our fame)

The Pool Attendant called us in
(we took an early bath)
"Your father's in the car park, dear.
It's too humid for his cough"

Legs sticking on wet jeans and tees
I looked at Rachel's worry
More fascinated, than concerned
I never thought to hurry

The memory is hazy now
(he had a broke down Ford)
Slumped across the steering wheel
Face ruddy and engorged
I asked him; "Can I watch you, please?"
His heart attack, ignored
The other's fetched assistance, yet
I stayed with Death, and mourned

At six years old, I knew I had
A duty to this man
To stay as witness to his death
In honor of His plan

The flaccid skin of vacant shell
Now burdened my Windmill
The widow drew his life from mine
Some comfort of my vigil

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When people say that there is no such thing as repressed memory; I know differently. My mother had alway assumed that my solitary presence at the Death of Rachel's Father (and the subsequent hounding for details of it by his family members) were the reasons that I never referred to it for twenty years. Not the case. It was during a rather hot Christmas dinner, when one of our guests referred to themselves as "sweating, like a pig". As soon as this phrase was said, I dropped my fork, memories of a little girl, whose arms were perched between two front seats asking a dying man why he was 'sweating, like a pig'? - It all came back - even the humorous part of his body gases escaping, and me giggling at his farts of death.

That was a real Turning Point for me - even death farts in the face of Death

(Ballad form, loosely fitting an 8,6 repeated syllabic structure)