Andrew is pissing on the wall now and Colin’s
following in his shark tooth hat. He tells a story
about living on Long Island and how, walking
with his bulldog, he was sometimes mistaken
for Truman Capote. Justine is blonde and pregnant
says, 'Ruby, I think,' then louder, 'Ruby’ –
stop and wait. The wind
lifting a pram cover and peering in. ‘Now ask me,’
Billy like a tiger, and the gulls ratchet it down to a mew
This poem was written very long time ago. Nine years. But I've been redrafting it over the past two months.
Ed doesn't walk Billy now because he isn't well enough so his wife Patricia does it instead. We always stop and chat when we see them, but Billy and Ruby are older and greyer and only sniff each other now - no churning. Colin passed away five years ago and his beloved Andrew followed. Garwain, if that was his name, moved away with Charlie. So, I think, did Justine and her dogs and her Ruby - but I'm not sure about that. I just haven't seen them in a while. I still enjoy my daily walks with my Ruby but it's been a while since it was quite so social and quite so much fun.