The Pass

You lose the ‘Invalid Pass’

one day. It fell

out of a car door

and now you feel bad,

take it personally

- passes are important,

they save effort, time and money

and you’ll have to explain

to your ex-wife (who owns the pass)

that you lost it and she

might shout and bawl,

blaming, re-creating

that old, old

feeling of guilt;

as a great castrator.

But the loss

of a pass births

feelings of needing

to write a poem about

being at fault, about old

relationships, about guilt

and then it’s not so bad.

It seems almost, like, worth

it, you get, because

that poem comes out alright,

quite okay

and then the Pass turns

up – found by a neighbour

and you see how it all goes on;

at least for as long as it can.