I pull up, golden hour drips through,
glazes your ornaments. Bittersweet.
The white rabbit clock,
five minutes too fast.
I trace my fingers over the curves
of your sofa, green velvet hills
like last summer at the castle in Dover,
when we realised it might be over.
I look at your art for the last time,
shapes and maths, strong and clear.
My abstract dreamscape is
Decaying in a landfill
I watch a couple outside, they howl,
shove, whip up a tornado that
tears them to shreds.
If only and how and why!
Next day, two ducks land in my
garden. They sleep in tandem and work
together chasing off a sneaky stout crow.
Under the sycamore,
they exist in this moment,
only this one.
One. I ask my Dad what day it is, again. Two. I had a nightmare that our block of flats was exploding whilst I ran away, do you think this reflects my fear of the virus, doc? Three. Chocolate porridge at 2pm, maybe its a bit late for porridge. Four. I think I accidentally chucked my propranolol tablets into the bin. Five. I take a bike ride round the village and I get intrusive thoughts about knocking over old people, on purpose, for fun. Six. I’m back to the flat and the ceiling looks like it’s lower than usual, did I grow a few inches? Seven. I can’t remember the last time I saw Emma, must have been when she cried in Wetherspoons, someone crying with you is better than no friend. Eight. My breathing turns shallow I think, I check my symptoms. Nine. I imagine dying of it and look back at my twenty-five years like a montage and get really overwhelmed and then I start to watch an old Mickey Mouse cartoon on my laptop. Ten. I just spotted a really plump pigeon outside. Eleven. Is this how hamsters feel, trapped inside with a few things to stimulate them. If so, I’m so sorry Martin (my old hamster). Twelve. The frustration sets in like thick molasses filling in the grooves of my soft brain. Thirteen. I turn to drawing and just end up sketching a huge mouth swallowing a rat. Fourteen. It’s bedtime and I settle down with a book. American ******. Patrick just killed a dog and it set me off sobbing. Fifteen. I close my eyes and wish for a better day tomorrow. Is it going to be Tuesday or Wednesday?
Domestic life, wouldn’t it be nice,
wine in hand, topped with ice.
Your hair shining ginger in the sun,
at the BBQ, loading sausages in buns
as our son screams and trips over. Twice!
On Thursday we lounge and eat egg-fried rice,
all we do is laugh and you say: 'This is Paradise.'
Then we shout over cake, it’s overdone!
You see my tears and hug me, feels nice.
You’re still the man with the best advice.
So take me to Harvester, just for fun,
then we talk in funny voices to our sweet son.
Let’s drink more wine we bought half price.
A modern take on a rondeau.
The council house figures,
did they just move?
They laugh and link arms.
I drop my carnations
As the big clock bellows.
A man that looks like my
'Hell is closer than you think!'
I wait for you at the regal
Left Lion and his expression
blesses me with subtle hope.
You walk up, head framed.
An umbrella halo.
There you are my Aphrodite.
Carefully carved caryatid,
the weight over your head
Your lightness looks like feathers,
the tiny fluffy white ones.
We glance at each other knowingly.
Turn around. My face: angel falls.
The angel ascended.
He basks in morning beam.
The sofa cradles, heart pulsates.
He watches me, charmed eyes.
Work at 6, haven’t slept.
I call in sick and stroke his head.