Do you recall,
my son,
from your side
of the curtain


of death,
that Metallica CD
you bought me
at that record fair


some years back?
You fingered through
a number of CDs
in racks


looking for something
for yourself:
or R.E.M.


I forget which
or was it more
or both.
I was in


a heavy metal
frame of mind
that day;
counting the money


to match the choice.
I'll get it
for you
for your birthday,


you said.
I play it still,
the Metallica CD,
the thundering drums,


buzz saw guitars,
chugging bass,
and tough guy voice
over the turned up


loud burning lot.
I think of you
when playing it now;
your quiet nature,


soft spoken voice,
hungry-bear stance
about the room,
your own unique


chuckle of humour.
Do you remember,
my son,
the Zed Zeppelin


CD and DVD
you bought me
for my birthday
that final year?


you'll always be
a rocker,
you said,  
and those words


repeat softly,
like a summer breeze,
through the corridors,
of my mourning head.


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