Tim Brockett

The Archaeology of My Old Man 

Howard Carter cracked open
your tomb and wept

at the pointlessness of what
you saved, the tax returns,

unbroken trail of inkblots
back to 1949, chronicle

of all your time on Earth
was worth to you, and what

you swapped it for, until
the news came from Cairo

that the Pharaoh had died,
and the coolies walked back

to their village to mourn,
and the British rode off

to the Valley of the Kings to wait
for the rumble of moving vans,

tinkle of jewels, fragrance
of labdanum and myrrh.

When not writing poetry or hot-wiring electric chairs, Tim Brockett performs music in the luxury hotels of Asia.