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