did you

Did you get to tell your father,
Howard Sax,
you said he would be envious,
of your night job playing cards at the Soaltee, 
your light relief from teaching law
at Tribhuvan.

Did you tell him of the Vegas man
his shiny suits and Thai girls,
how you borrowed rings for all your fingers
to look the part,
Tibetan, turquoise, silver and red coral,
you set your long hair neatly plaited down your back,
good ol' New York boy.

Yes, I believed you when you said
you knew the Grateful Dead,
and had advised them on legal matters and procurements.

I remember as I left for Oz
before your trip to Mustang,
how I wished I could change my ticket
and go with you.

The news came to me 
on the phone,
Howard won't be going home
his blood now flows in the Marshyandi river.

Did you feel the Khukri bite
when they took your sparkling life, 
and swept your head from your shoulders
in the mountains.
Did you taste the irony of it
as your blood flowed slowly past your lips,
spilt by a grubby Maoist
with his cheapened ideology.

Did you get to tell your father,
did he slip a smile when you told,
of sunshine days in the valley
peeling laughter,
and the nights 
round the table
playing cards
at the Soaltee.