I think the mountain is far away from me

They found a washed rice pudding cup
on the draining board by the sink
and trainers that got nothing
on eBay after the funeral.
No hope of a headstone.

The big black dog
that scared the shit out of the street
stayed with his fossil body until the paramedics came.
They said it was a bloody mess,
but the dog didn't care.

The council gave them a week
to clear out the flat.
Time to mop up,
hoover the dog hair,
and put his things in a black bag.

Up the hill, on their way back to Mams,
his little toy Christmas tree broke the black bag,
and everything fell on the kerb in the rain.
Curtains twitched,
tellys were turned down.

The big black dog howled,
his long black coat sodden
under the streetlight that never got fixed.
They waved drivers to stop;
they didn't.

His tracksuits and dog toys
were mauled in the road.
They watched the mini Christmas baubles
escape under the headlights.
Small hopes down the drain.

A loan for the funeral
that they're still paying off.
Still not enough money for a headstone.
It's not how we want to remember him,
they have to say.

I think the mountain
is far away from me.
Not a bit of it fair,
but we tell ourselves it's better
than what we had up there.