The Bereavement of Mr Jones
Mr Jones was an expert In the art of origami.
He would thumb through volumes Of his clean kitchen paper Before wrapping chips As though changing a nappy.
He made paper hats To amuse his nephews.
He enjoyed watching his customers Pump vinegar on their food And he refilled each bottle From a white gallon can.
He was the salt of the earth, Of this he had sacks and loved Pouring it into the palm of his hand, Creating a white landscape, A mining district of peaks Which a wind from his lips Would level to plains.
But most important his fish Which he held by the tail, Gave them new life in his hot, dark fat.
Poor Mr Jones who was father To the families of Old Hill, Fed the children and saw That they turned into grown ups. When his wife died her death Was announced on a square Of his kitchen paper Taped to the window, upper And lower case letters mixed clumsily.
Gerard Woodward
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