by Kate MacDonald
I had dearly loved my father, his sudden demise felt terribly wrong.
A legend, a star, a man of the people, till he kept coming back like a song.
He was consistent, I’ll give him that, at midnight he’d always appear.
Groaning and shaking his fists, but what he wanted was never clear.
Was there something left undone? It felt as if he had an axe to grind.
Was it financial, domestic, romantic? What could be on his mind?
I brought in a lady called Pistic Kate, crossed her palm with a vodka and then,
asked her to find out what father was after, when he came back again and again.
“Have you found out what’s going on?” she said, “I have an answer at last,
you need to look in the pockets of the jeans he wore the night he passed.
There’s a key to a safety deposit box with details of his second family.
He says they need to be told he’s gone, and of course he knows it’s bigamy.”
The generous man had left me his house, and one terrible task ahead,
that of visiting his secret wife and family, in order to tell them he is dead.