I hold you in my hand one final time.
Weighty in your coffee jar coffin,
you strain the Kwiksave handles,
how you hated the weekly shop,
swipe my legs through Forget-Me-Not plots.

The receptionist clamps you to her bosom
I can almost see you smile…
Transferred to an urn you return
in the arms of a burly man,
your mates would have died laughing.

We march to your spot.
Grass skinned back, for once you conform
Fall neatly into place.
Your dent on the settee space.
I top a can of Stella, sip and tip some in for you.