he is Henry, gently-bearded
warm grandee
he is tottering in the rocking -chair
muffled in a fluffy tartan plaid
he slightly smells of whisky
he had felt asleep when he was
re-reading Prust and re-listening to List
his filigree shades climb down from
his hooked nose
henry is tottering in the rocking-chair
his specs are dancing on the nose
while sleeping
he realises he has his coffee and cigars on the table
he does not bother
he keeps a diary
being serious about his notes
in contradiction to me
Henry is gentle grandee
he dies today
at 5 o'clock
when it is time for tea...