Death in the Time of Brexit

I’m minding Trev while our wives go shopping.
Babysitting, they call it, and Trev is nodding
his head that’s growing too big for his body,
face red and puffy, as if he’s been caught
at the scene of a crime in someone else’s clothing.

It’s all the drugs that he takes
in the battle against his exotic form of cancer
and the newly found cerebral tumour.
Now he spends his days flat on the sofa
wearing a replica kit, watching sports,
checking the progress of Brexit talks and trying
to take back control of his bowels.
 
He voted Remain, but he’ll be leaving anyway,
having run out of second opinions.  
So to give Trev something to savour,
he and I have a secret wager.
Trev pretends to think he’ll live to see Brexit,
I’m betting that he’ll peg out before it.
A monkey rests on the outcome
to give Trev an added incentive.

But the deal has brought ambivalence
and our friendship’s become complicated;
sometimes I’m wishing he won’t make it
while Trev is impatient for Brexit.
What bonded us together now pulls us apart,
and we argue about whether to call the bet off.
Oh shit! says Trev, as he follows through a fart.
We’re agreed on the need for a backstop.

Raymond Miller

If you have any thoughts on this poem, Raymond Miller  would be pleased to hear them.