My father lives in my dreams now: <br />In death he is half a stranger, <br />Professional, like my doctor. <br />He has left me behind, moved on. <br /> <br />So I retire, as he did, <br />To hobbies and memorabilia. <br />I cultivate his short fuse, <br />His humour, his generosity: <br />I drink as much as he smoked <br />And smuggle the bottles home <br />In his number-coded briefcase. <br />I shall die like him, before sixty: <br />I fear it no longer. <br />It is part of the family.<br /><br />Richard George<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/inheriting/
