his phone rings
she says why don’t you answer it
he says it hasn’t said
anything yet     ..

I want to hear your voice
above all else, so shout, my
love, shout my love !

flicking his ash on the floor, fairly
certain
that nobody saw

and the more that he flicked, the more
he was gripped
by the urge to flick a bit more     ..

is the mousetrap still running
at the theatre, is there a donkey sanctuary
in st pauls
is there still the thames, the thames!
is this then how poetry
goes

chap in the pub says
are you going on anywhere after?
I don’t know

turns out he wasn’t talking about death
but a party he’d heard about

cue embarrassed laughter

they wore trilbys and overcoats
smoked all the time
and always voted labour
it was nineteen sixty nine

they were children in the second world war
they were my uncles
in woolwich south east london by then
in their thirties

they were worn, tired, always smiling,
great blokes

stevie smith was the
greatest poet of her
age, but what’s her
age got to do with it

wanted
to cry
but there’s people looking

worse off
than I

your dress
like waterfalls

young men fail to
notice the old bloke in the café
reading his paper
too busy with their phones
you can’t hide behind them
he says

a small bird sings
in the wind in the
trees in the wind
a small bird sings

alas
a loss
unless
undressed
the poor old
chap was loved
I guess
her curls
in swirls
around his chest       ..

the angry knocking
and the insistence
I open the door

couldn’t help wondering
what was behind it

she’s always saying that I live
in the past
well yes, it is the only place I’ve lived
apart from now  ..

sitting in the pub
thinking of my wife at
home half past
four in the afternoon

you dislike
refugees in this country
is full of
****** racists       ..

it’s here
your
underwear
you left
it     ..

sitting at a pavement table
   of a turkish café
  near the gare de l’est

feel myself hunch
  like a dishevelled pigeon
over lunch, the waiter

asks for our order,
     naturally in french
and I ask “parlez vous anglais?”

     he enquires if we’re dutch,
               or quite possibly deutsch    ..
guess it doesn’t matter much

a girl in slacks
a cigarette
agape

a grape
aggrieved
relieved

and yet     ..

it either flows
or it don’t
and if it don’t
it ain’t going anywhere

as I get older people
get fewer and fewer

he said he loved the anonymity of the
city
she said on the other hand it would be
quite nice
to know where we actually are

been together
for

so long

she says
I’m off   ..

they remained silent
over dinner, the gravy especially was
best not mentioned again

she said she needed to be
free
he said from what
she said from now on    ..











l

turned up at her door
     with a bottle of gin
  so what is that for ?
oh, it’s just a way in ..

most people around here
take democracy for
granted they vote for the fascist  ..

when
she
leaves
fall

café society meant
a bit of a natter
over a cup of tea -
we’re not french

my wife has done wonders with
the garden
it looks more beautiful than ever
just by her being there

people find me cold,
which is also
how they leave me

a sunday roast
washed down with a pint
got back on the coach
and belched.
what more do you want     ..

as chaucer’s pilgrims passed through south
east london into kent I like to think
they’d have passed close to our house but then
they told such tales       ..

called the waiter over
for the bill
he said what about coffee
I said thanks
but I don’t even know you     ..

when I was a kid I got a sixpence
a week for
pocket money, plus the beano
every
saturday
and then, suddenly, they
brought in decimalisation
and a sixpence no longer existed,
and I’ve worried about
money
ever since   ..

used to hit the keys
on that old type writer
until it eventually gave in
and said what I wanted

feel unsteady, seems windier than
it used to be -
don’t know if it’s a climate change thing,
or just me

remember when your foot sank in
the mud and you lost your
shoe and I laughed and you never
forgave me? alright, I’m sorry   ..

let’s do lunch tomorrow
not sure if I can make it
I’m not asking you to cook

I’m going away
for a while he
thought she’d
be ok about it  ..

rather write detective fiction
than poetry but I wouldn’t
be any good at it, and what’s
the difference? she says

the pub at lunchtime
is quiet, he says,
I’m eating

asked the bloke in the
market
where his apples were from
he said trees
said I just wanted to
know if they’re local
he said
they’re trees, mate
they tend
not to travel

ate our sandwiches sitting
on the steps leading up to
the art gallery
it’s a matter of taste, she says

what’s with this whole twenty
first century internet
thing about having followers,
I mean I feel like a stalker

this is all knew
I’d find it odd
my dear

your heart is just a pump, love
and if I broke that
you’d be dead, but you’re not      ..

she said I wonder
what you look like
without your glasses

he said I wonder
what you look like
without my glasses    ..

someone stops the road sweeper
and asks him the way;
he says, like this     ..

I want to read
my book
why are you
looking at me
like that ?