It is my habit to keep your letters, on arrival,
unopened on the mantelpiece, among the mementos
and dusty treasure, for sometimes up to a week.
Anticipation being one of life’s sweeter pleasures.
Your bold black hand, the seal of tape (security),
the amusing doodles of hairy noses,
the way you address the envelope Doctor Reeves…
are all as good as your signature to me.
One 3am, unable to sleep, I opened it and read –
Matt D has died in a Mexican motel.
The rumour mill grinds, as you’d imagine.
Some say murder by a drug cartel.
And some say the hanging man ain’t even him.
For good measure, Julia S
the official line is suicide.
It does seem strange
that a fella such as him,
with two daughters
back home in Blighty,
would consider such a thing...
He was always the prince of adventures. His stories came on waves. There had been whispers
of sombrero’d dealers, mescaline bus rides, dozes in dust bins, jamming pistol barrels with a finger,
adobe jail cells, unpaid bar bills, very high jinx and very high cliffs. Perhaps a lover, too.
I don’t doubt any of this, but who knows? I’ve read somewhere that they tame tigers down that way.
“The fall’ll probably kill ya!”
RIP MD x