An explosion,
pulse quickened,
the adrenaline itch
threatened to stifle me

throat constricted,
mouth cotton dried
as I eyed the few I could see
in the front row

then the music
as familiar as my pillow
gave a beat and suggested melody
and as I sang I rose

Next to me was this one
and her feet were never still
she twirled and span through contretemps
and likely always will

That one had intensity
but never said a word
from blackened fingered canvases
his voice could still be heard

These two stood in spotlights
and held everyone in thrall
performing other’s stories,
their own a quieted call

And the group raised up their voices
which entwined and fit so well
and the chorus spoke of everything
they’d never usually tell

These memories, these children,
who moved, who drew, who showed,
who sang unguarded clarity
while the emptiness bellowed

Used to have us allies
used to have us care,
now, become statistics
now, are never there

I spent fifteen minutes of the lesson
chasing a roll of Polo mints and a pound coin
out of a small hole in the working class lining of his pointless blazer, to stop him taking scissors to it,
even though mum said it was OK

At the same time, my child bosses
decided to cut my subject
from the formerly rich platter available
to our blasted, gorgeous youth
because, reasons
which I suppose are financial and deeply,
numerically,
justifiable

Meanwhile, the next kid in junior school
silently loses the opportunity
to be anything other
than a state certified failure

So, cheers

To Friday five I apologise,
to my profession and charges
I weaken and give mummers tales,
avoid holes of attention
that tired souls give in to

I love my responsibilities hotly
but there are ends to means,
so weekly turns have starts
which Mondays begin

A squall passed by
like a rough emotion,
forgotten in seconds
as a swathe of blue sky
assuages

I roll your name around my tongue,
try it on for size and fit
and note the heart-flutter it gives me
before a gulp and swallow ingests you

I ponder and digest your vitamins
as sense prevails
and I return to business as usual

Yearning for frost sharp, gaudy lights
in November seems apposite in a year consistently blighted with dull, pedestrian horror

The itch to raise a tree and string lights
to no and every god
could be scratched this time

We can pack our proud sneers
in the loft or attic in exchange for
electric hope and cellophane cheer

As nights draw in
we’ll bluff metaphors of closeness
until a wellspring comes to right us