it’s like this: you know the guy
rides his bike round the centre of cam all day
all like speaker in a plastic bag hanging off the handle bars like
yeah, you know the one, well, anyway,
I heard he’s trying to open a vortex …
you
thursday, 11am, tore through
michael and lou
flinging words like handfuls of gravel
sniping bitterly in their long coats
you
with elbows to knees
and a glide so routine, so serene
that michael broke a smile
and followed your plastic music
with insinuating flashes
of the eye
and eyebrow
you
wonders lou, couché
and michael’s forgiven head nestling
where do you sleep
and where do you live
he cannot imagine a vortex man
buttering toast and undressing
the front door’s bolts of morning
but lou is staccato intellect
and he’s not at all like when
you
felt home once like a distant memory
stirred by the smell of someone else’s washing powder
on an often worn jumper, slightly damp
then passing, and not quite talc,
felt home in a throat-lurch stronger than the shop entryway
or the two up two down
and held its shimmering promise
in the palm of your mind
and drew circles around it
considerately
on a shiny old bike
Artwork by Elizabeth Laurence
Yorumlar