The clowns are angry
but they don't show it.

Behind white faces there is no hint of the resentment
that grows underneath comically sized trousers.

The clowns know they only make sense
in a certain context
underneath a big top
modelling balloons at young Bens 7th birthday.

Not here in your garden
viewed from behind a curtain
4.53am.

...skims the far reaches of his bowl
trying to remember if he's been there before.

He feeds amongst castles.

The surgeons listened to jaunty be
bop while they cut through his cranium.

A metal plate was inserted,
dissecting memories and thoughts,
causing confusion between
his now and then.

He left hospital with a funny taste in his mouth
which he could not name
or shake.

During the period of convalescence
his children tried to cheer him up
by attaching fridge magnets to his head.

a cow, a banana, the Tower of London,
a badge reminding them to Give Blood.

One fridge magnet secured in place a drawing,
reminding him of childhood pictures which were
seventy five percent blue sky
and twenty five percent thick
bands of green grass

and all the family stood outside
where sunflowers were bigger than houses.

behind books never lent
there is a worm hole to different worlds.

However, this being a library,
this discovery has never been discussed
or articulated.

Attempts to share the secret are met with a finger
to the lip and a ssshhhhh
from the hatchet faced librarian.

We looked out of the window
but the view wasn’t what the brochure had promised.

In fact there was no view at all.

It hadn’t been drawn yet.

Looking up we saw him sitting there,
sipping from a cup,
looking out of his window,
admiring his view,
a blunt pencil in his hand.

I was sitting on a train with my pad and a pen, trying to write a poem. I had no title, but I had written down the first line

...I was sitting on a train with my pad...

A man sat opposite me.
After a minute or so of scanning his paper and throwing cursory looks in my direction
he enquiried "What are you writing?"

"I'm trying to write a poem about a man trying to write a poem on a train
who gets asked by a stranger 'what are you writing'.

"Can I be in it?", asked the stranger opposite.

"You already are", I replied.

The train pulled out of the station.