Conception

I walk into a café’s mouth

and wander lonely as a soul

amongst the faces; people laugh

and grin and point at purple sea and

mountains on the wall.

In here, ice cream; knickerbocker

glory; outside, snails are sliming in the wet

and, as I gaze, a waiter (‘Peter’ on his name badge) says

‘It’s not self-service,’ wafts a menu in his hand

‘what’ll you get?’

Seven Ages of Day

Sun’s as bright as a hospital lightbulb

makes me eyes water and cry;

time to be up and about in me trousers,

get me washed into the day.

Just before lunchtime, I chat to me mates,

head off to the caff with young Amy

and by mid-afternoon I be graftin’ like bullocks

or else I’ll end up in the army

but just before tea-time I suss it all out

and tell all the bosses ‘bog off’

then flop in me chair now, with cold beans on toast

and watch me some footie on t’box

but it’s darker than caves, and both eyes are red,

so I’d better head off up the stairs into clouds in my bed.

Call to the Bank

I am hanging my coat on a hanger

(fists as crunched-up as tight as two snails)

get out a cellphone and dial

with my teeth angle-grinding themselves

and my hand begins quivering ‘danger’

as I punch in the numbers to call;

circumlocute in self pity – the trial -

of hoping a human might help.

Decision

One end of a see-saw goes high in the air

and another end bangs on the ground of despair.

Tom’s in the middle with a foot on each side

scratching his forehead - he cannot decide;

(wibbling and dribbling, sizzle and shiver)

upstream or down a meandering river?

So he jumps to the left and strides to the sun,

freedom from wobbles, at last, he can run

smiles for the trust in his heart - that he won.

Connected

I have two sons;
two hands, two feet,
engaged in driving
of my car
and, when the starter motor jammed,
I used each hand and foot
- and teenage boy – for hard pushing;
crunching a little bump-start.

The engine fired and a few of us
had cranked a change, a difference,
but, later, when that car was canned,
my sons grew quiet and sad
(we drove it thirteen years)
and now we gaze alone, askance,
standing near a box-cart, shaking hands,
nostalgic, aching, flattened; true at last.

Jung said

sometimes my shadow

is wide and tall, sometimes small;

other times not there.

Random Stopping

It can be dangerous when the car in front

randomly stops – or comical when a teenager

- walking up the stairs – stops dead

in tracks because a bleeping text came in

and you say ‘Sorry’ as you crash her rucksack.

It’s weird, because a voice inside desires

that we ‘Keep trucking! Keep on keeping on!’

resists an awkward, random stop.

This energy’s the kind that Bannister

used in his first four minute mile – the kind

that every lover sometimes needs to find.

Random stopping never seems a good idea

- ever – definitely not on an escalator

or motorway and Philip Larkin

bluntly knew how many things we talk

about just never happen. He also said that

this one will.