old Yip was
a hundred years
and dying
from cancer in his
hands.
he used to be
a military
man
years ago
Manchura
WW2
Veitnam
and Cambodia
when pol pot
(the shepard)
was in charge
of rice padies,
deserted cities.

he doesn't do much
now
sits on his porch
in his rocking chair
pulling apart
pieces of his gun
only to put back
together again
whilst his dog
sits idly
biting at air
fleas
vermin
bullets
shells
no longer there.

each morning
he got up from
his floor
ate rice and fruit
whistled for his dog
who
was not there.

children running so
old Yip waited
for his dog to catch up
and was sad
to see
the children got away.

old dog old Yip.

his wife dead
these twelve years
and
is reminded
each night by
the empty space
and empty
house
where no
one
shouts
barks
swears or
screams
when war hero
returns home.

Yip doesn't dismantle his gun today. he wait's

for days, without.

savages and bluebirds
singing with crows,
mounted on their backs,
and cats chasing after mice.

masks are
stupid thing's
carved out faces
of somebody or
something
and who knows
who might
recognise who
or what
mistake you for him
or her
or it
and shoot dead
for old times
sake.

much better
be yourself
die
content.

old man Yip
sits on porch
dismantles his gun
fixes it back
to way it was
and if
only life was so simple.

old man Yip
gun for company
staring at
the face of his
dead wife
waits for midnight
and kisses
barrel of his gun
and old dog comes
content
to old Yip's side.