Nocturnal

I knew a man once who wished he hadn’t been born.

He meant what he said.

He wasn’t a poseur.

In the few, radiant years I knew him

He never spoke for effect.

He said what he meant, I remember,

quietly, thoughtfully,

over tea and scrambled eggs on toast

on one of those perfect mornings

that always follows

a night of rapture.

He had the bright way of speaking

of those in the deepest despair.

He made himself a joy to be with.

He saw the funny side of almost everything.

I knew he had meant what he said

when he departed decorously

with sleeping pills and vodka.

No noose, no razor blades, no blood in the bath,

And nothing so wickedly inconsiderate

as a sudden plunge under an oncoming train –

he valued understatement.

I shan’t reveal his name.

He wouldn’t have wanted me to.

He really did prefer oblivion.

It was his chosen habitat.