Being happy
only means
having something or someone
about which you may later
become depressed.

Celebrations
mutual congratulations
and a fair flowing stream
of a liquid dream
lead by the nose
to animated fun
and a phone call.

As the tone rang
I blinked
and the sky grew dark
an instant eclipse of the day.

Gripped,
a cold hand of fear on my shoulder
I blinked
and flicked  through channel after channel
frantic
panicked searching for news
of the disaster.
What had happened
to make all the lights go out?

I remember
a clock
flashing wrong time
some two hours passed
in the moment it took
to close my eyes.


But nothing
no reports no pictures no screaming people running for the hills
like wild horses
no-one knew.

Only I (lonely I)
all on my own
I knew. Something was wrong.

How else could I spend
no time
talking to You for two hours
and saying nothing at all?

(And ’66 became ’87 without anyone noticing…)

Waiting ten minutes
(waiting a lifetime)
for a train
(for an eternity)
to carry me
(back)
to your house
(to your life)
to your marriage
(to your memory)
to some body else.

A normal day
another office journey
punctuated boredom
with smiles of recognition

and then there She was
with your boots, your coat
with you hair and form
a glance
a refusal to believe it wasn’t so
told me it was you
so I looked again
and in love

She looked
(but she didn’t look like you)
She smiled
(but she didn’t smile like you)
She talked
(but she didn’t talk like you)

and when I left the train
I left her too
- she wasn’t You.

There was a woman, a lady, on the metro train
who you could see, despite all the pain,
had once been the most beautiful girl in the world,
with a mane of black hair that about her face curled,
and she loved with greatest lovers of her time
(and loved them still in her departing mind.)
At her feet played a child born not long ago,
the only joy left in this lady’s woe,
the only true way to bring a smile to her face,
for though yet strong, smooth, and free from age,
was tired and weakened by the passing of life,
the passing of family, now a widow, not a wife,
and all this she told in her sad way
as she sat wondering when madness would have its day
and whether her sadness would take her away.
Clapping and dancing the child jumped from her knee
stealing the smile, leaving dark memory
and ran, fleeting, past me to the other side.
Looking from one to the next I could not decide
to whom I was closer - sure, the child in age;
but looking twice, it was Grandmother, in so many ways.

At some point
the audience asks
who am I.
Not
“Who am I?”
but who am I
and I will tell you
I am the actor
I am the clown
I am Andy’s phone-*** robot machine
I am whoever you choose me to be
Play God.

She is holding a picture
with the title
“All the memory I have”
It is of a man,
impossibly young
(possibly younger) in uniform.
As her tear hits the paper
that cannot absorb it
she weeps another for his cheek,
more resistant than ever.