Hands that curl and uncurl around soda cans.
Hands that hold onto bus poles, hold on like
they’re clawing, clambering, drowning,
To let slip is to let go.
Hands that
are tiny, and fit into a palm
and curl around a finger
for security, for safety, for
Comfort.
Hands
that lay twitching on lonely table tops
twitch to the beat of loneliness, to drawn out breaths
to the stranger who never comes.
Hands
that salute to power, hands
that pluck out flowers, hands
that dig graves for the brave, the old, the forgotten,
and the Cherished.
Hands
that follow like a breeze around her waistline
as he steers her around the crowd, steers her to
Hands
that flourish pens, pencils, praises,
Hands
that she gently raises
to the Heavens every night in prayer.
Her hands
that pray for peace, for patience, for her
Salvation.
When I woke up this morning, half
comatose, the only thing
on my mind even remotely
close to any definition of ‘challenge’ was
to rush and catch the 9:11 bus.
The only goal, to have breakfast
To make sure my clothes were ironed
Out, hair brushed, contacts
In place.
Keep up with this
Rat-race.
Trying to arrange, organise
The chaos in my mind, to still
The pendulum that is my world.
Uncurl.
It hits me that
The banality of my life, the stale
Menial detail, pettiness
Of my existence is laughable.
What are my goals? My challenges?
To think
I’ve made each day my battle,
Each day the ironed shirt my armour
The bus,
Last of the escaping fleet of ships, the
Breakfast
My last meal.
They play like obituaries,
Ours.
I sit in respect.
Let the clumsy stitches shine
Few more seconds vulnerable, remembering,
before I conceal the calluses again.
Seamless.
But now when I when I write about you and I
There is no more room for we, us.
The two words absurd
Paradoxical
In this sphere of honeyed lies,
Of petty fairytales.
I shatter each glass slipper, firmly,
The shards
Miniscule.
Tonight at noon
Supermarkets will advertise 3p extra on everything
Tonight at noon
Children from happy families will be sent to live in a home
Elephants will tell each other human jokes
America will declare peace on Russia
World War I generals will sell poppies on the street on November 11th
The first daffodils of autumn will appear
When the leaves fall upwards to the trees
Tonight at noon
Pigeons will hunt cats through city backyards
Hitler will tell us to fight on the beaches and on the landing
fields
A tunnel full of water will be built under Liverpool
Pigs will be sighted flying in formation over Woolton
And Nelson will not only get his eye back but his arm as well
White Americans will demonstrate for equal rights
In front of the Black house
And the monster has just created Dr. Frankenstein
Girls in bikinis are moonbathing
Folksongs are being sung by real folk
Art galleries are closed to people over 21
Poets get their poems in the Top 20
There's jobs for everybody and nobody wants them
In back alleys everywhere teenage lovers are kissing in broad
daylight
In forgotten graveyards everywhere the dead will quietly bury the
living
and
You will tell me you love me
Tonight at noon
I am nothing but an ordinary stone statue
Whom you endlessly try to coat with melted pure gold
(I may not be completely tangible without you
For your arms protect me from all hazards I behold)
I am not quite blessed with anything but living breath
That I attempt to bring the best out of and survive
(Yet you are there to take away those objects I dread)
Even if often unrequited, for me you strive)
I am composed of flaws, and faults, and imperfections
Splashed with tears and decked with pain, enough of which to bleed
(A stereotype of the world and all its nations
Although you do know that, you never seem to take heed)
I am a speck of dust in the face of universe
What the skies refer to as a vernacular scene
(I do not understand, you chose to be doomed and cursed
