He could not remember a time
it did not rain
in him. He was not a cartoon
but there it was: no dry clothes. Not there
when mother kissed his tall man sliced
open by barbed wire. Not there when
Dicky wooed him with daffodils
lifted from the park.
Not here, mother and Dicky dead,
when he came home and undressed,
jacket, Oxfords, trousers, boxers drenched,
on one of those beautiful August evenings.