Old Ron is keen on the exercise bikes
Down at the local gym,
And I say that’s O.K. for him,
If that’s what old Ron likes.
Join him? No, I can't be arsed.
Life offers, should such be desired,
Less tiresome ways of getting tired,
And going nowhere fast.
At the crem in suits and ties
We sing a faltering hymn
For Ron, who died of a heart attack
While keeping fit at the gym.
Relatives are at the front,
Cronies at the back.
I see a blankness on the face
Of the widow, gaunt in black.
The gang of us used to smile at Ron,
With his bike and his Diet Coke.
Now futile efforts to ward off death
No longer seem a joke.
Not when you see that wooden box,
That unavoidable fact
Reminding us what we’d rather not know.
Death has no tact.
There are rumours about Ron’s widow;
She’s done something to her hair
And looks maybe ten years younger,
She’s frittering Ron’s savings
And living in high style.
Her boyfriend’s young, a Somali
With a beguiling smile.
Friends and relatives look askance;
They say, ‘He’s leading her a dance.
He only wants the passport.’
She says: ‘I’ll take my chance.’
The relatives draw in their breath
And shake their collective head.
Ron’s widow says: ‘I want to live,
And we’ll all be a long time dead.’
If you have any thoughts about this poem, George Simmers
would be pleased to hear them.