The Ofi Press Magazine

Poems by Jim Conwell (UK)

Published in The Ofi Press issue 48 

 Neighbour

There is a man with a Bowie knife,

Its needle point made to slip deep in, easily,

Its handle tanned with the sweat of his loving hand.

It is his favourite thing in the world

And he takes it out whenever he has the time,

to hone it some more on its leather holster

which is specially made for that purpose.

He is never further than the next room

And the thin wall ensures

I can always hear him moving

even when I cannot see him.

He is taking his afternoon nap just now

Collapsed on the iron camp bed in the corner.

But he sleeps with his knife in his hand.

And when he opens his eyes, he is instantly awake.  

Funeral

How did the funeral go?

Considering that we put

my sister in a deep hole

and filled it in, it went very well,

thank you.

None of us tripped on our way

with the coffin, the priest was

reasonably pleasant,

the people enjoyed the food

and the money

behind the bar did not run out.

It was a great fucking funeral.

You approach me

across the hall, crowded with

her family and friends,

all remembering and eating

and drinking and laughingly,

renewing acquaintances.

You tell me how loved she

was by everyone she worked with.

That she was a great laugh

and will be really missed.

I don’t look you in the eye and say

“Well, you had the best of her, then.”

She was your “Angel” was she?

Lucky you.