When my brother died,
he died as a
distraught man,
thinking of his

wastrel sons,
and autumnal leaves,
and a more than dogged
wife who wept her

lungs out,
and swooned into a
febrile silence.
He was not on the bed,

no longer, people said.
Just a closure of the eyes,
like the windows shut.
And as legatees,

we received nothing
but empathy
which he received

from the people
when he was alive
and scintillatingly robust.