Ken's Poetry

Bad Luck

His fuchsias, crushed by the iron skip,
were the best I’d ever seen.
Now the builders had bought chaos
to his ordered garden.

In passing he had shared a little
of his life with mine,
explained how to grow fine flowers,
the problem with his legs:
a man uneasy with retirement.

Passing each day with the dog,
logging the changes
I watched the house remodelled
to a plan I couldn’t reason,
watched the garage changed
into a room.

Today,
they built the wheelchair ramp.