A Declaration
Burp gun
Nice things are nicer
Bird beak twig weaving
Bag of soot in a
rowing boat
on a lake
What is this about, she asked
Well no – she didn’t
But he smiled anyway
Dipped his oars deeper
to off-lay any declaration
He rowed out of the dark end
of a blush evening sky
willing the brute mind sparks
to subside
Oh Shenandoah, she might –
she might what?
The yellow-pink light shimmered
on her gorgeous, loose-leaf face
As well he had the direction right.
New Year’s Day
He scrag-necked his regrets
so as to tie a serviceable knot
in a sack stuffed with leaves, which
he suspended from a burly branch
in the burning wet woods –
a short term survival bag with
a rip slit entrance.
When the rip gave out
he fell hard and went walking
half starved and shivering
back into the city
where pale madness might ripen
and there could be a proper
ripping.
Never say, God bless, son
it isn’t needed
Take no instruction to
get happy
just be on your way
build your own man-lifting kite
do the needful.
But, our man falters
enters a deserted building site
climbs the corset ladder
The cabin door has been seen to
by his lousy lock-picking angel
or, more likely
the locking has been neglected
The brake is off
to service the weather vane swing
His weariness has gone in the sway
but he shrinks at something like
the squeak of a rudder hinge
A half full bottle of water
A packet of Kimberly biscuits
Dangling below
the pulley, hook, chain, and sling
above his head, the cable winder
at his back and set off
a seven slab counterweight
Thankfully, there is no
operational power
He sits, eats, and drinks,
crawls to the end of the arm
on the narrow steel grating
to the farthest metal point
Lowly and wind giddy
tethered to his ankle, his not knowing
what is the needful
Rock-ribbed and loosely braced
he rubs his carcass knees
he floats above and beyond construction
How do they get all that patience
into a toolbox? he wonders
Equal to the putty sky, he dares to say
I have it this time.
Offsetting the Rage
He stepped out of the jumble sale
into the shambles of a garden
to air himself,
to learn from the trees perhaps.
He resolved to stop the bunching,
to shift to double spacing,
to chamois his markers,
But then
she stepped out from the jumble
looking for him,
how was that? he damn well wondered.
Perhaps her rage was altogether
of a different order.
Ask her out.
A long lunch, yes.
A little bunching was desirable.
Before he could ask, she damn well kissed him.
Chamois that.
Circling Home
Distant bells, yes,
but the feet hurt.
A person grills better under the sun
if they have purpose.
Sit a while and submit –
we must brew hope.
A better day is a better day, is it not?
Sit on my bench
and I’ll have you arrested,
growls the tramp.
His back is turned on you.
He is watching with the two blind buttons
of the half belt on the back of the
ripped woman’s coat he wears.
Stump pigeons and sniper larks
are alarmed by soft-stepping elephants,
But it is you who is dough plodding
across the painted park.
You who has suspended all remedial action.
You who denies that one colour
is made glorious by another.
Instead, you contemplate the business of fitting in
as you circle home in your new shoes.
A Momentous Day
Let me fix that.
I can do it, he says,
but does not.
Patience can drive a person wild
he mumbles without rancour,
but that is not to happen today.
I’ve had some bad news, he
announces with great relief,
but will not say what.
A killer diagnosis? No, they don’t
hand those out at his age.
Another crony has had the life
cleared out of him,
putting him next in line?
Don’t think like that.
You might pass him in the street
a skeleton man with one shoulder not
housed in his overcoat
his not having been able
to hoik it sufficiently
missing man formation in a squad
of one.
This old man has been loved.
He has something to say
that isn’t blither,
just not in this hour
and never, perhaps.
For now he must keep walking.
If he topples it will be
the wind that does it.
La Mer
Slightly still alive
more than that slightly
perhaps
Management has a measuring rod
under the stairs
and knows where to stick it
Raindrops quivering on the windows
but the sun is shining
The water is lapping on the stones
he tells me
Not anticipating a surge
I study my father’s paperskin hands
His fingers tighten
on the armrests
and slowly
He rises from the chair
He’ll not be waiting for the tea round
He’s going through the kitchens
Ducking out the back door
Some would-be age cop
will rat on him slightly
perhaps
Let them make their citizen’s arrest
It’s part of the job
They’ll find him, no doubt.
They know about the water lapping.
The Forecast
He left you his umbrella
The umbrella was left to you, that is,
big slate tent of a thing
double braced, parachute sturdy
could last another lifetime
in the right hands.
You want proper rain to open this one,
hoist it for the drum tonic,
stand under it to ease your mind
until any class of wonder is treacherous –
that puts a fire in the belly
and jump starts the feet,
which is why your father wants you to have it.
‘Take this vaulted hood for a turn,’ he says.
‘See if the wind lifts. Hold tight. You won’t regret it.
Just remember: it will always be mine,
it will always be yours.’
