He was grateful for the earlier impetus to shave
and the rare spur to trim his wayward nostril hairs.

He was pleased that this was a shower day
and that he had thought to try that citrus gel after all.

He was relieved it hadn’t been a typical Friday night,
topped off with a large fish supper after work.

He thanked the saint of 40-plus, single men
for these small mercies, as he recalled her kiss

- a peck really - on his left check, just in front of his ear
as they hugged their goodbye, just outside the station.

It had been just after she gave him her number
and promised a proper catch up soon and sealed

that promise in the squeeze of his hand as they parted.

And later, at the 1st anniversary of that chance meeting,
they laughed their recollection and she confessed

she had been swayed by the citrus.

Marjorie mulls the passing man and fly
The marriage window has gone by
Her hair lies dank n' grey in sobern grief
Her clothes befit a teenage thief

Rejection is a common theme
Daily survival is the daily dream
She plays with beads and hears the chime
The grandfather clock, true keeper of time

She smiles when asked to play the part
Of successful daughter, mother and heart
But reality bites when she is inept
Losing in life she always accepts

Sun sets behind, same as always
stretching my still unshapen shadow forward

My foot on the pedal presses,
maybe not as hard as before,
but always

The comic line perspective
forced to fit the frame, constricts
but at the same time comforts

Synapses that once crackled, fizzle
and with a little sadness,
still smile

Punters only buy into words
if they believe there’s worth.
I’ve been begging for buyers
before premature birthdays.
Let earth spin unaware –
never questioned its axis.
Hid from the anxious parties,
continued chewing table cloths,
then choked on the spike of a train stub.

Not much value in a decade thrice lived –
standing on the coast in yesterday’s underwear,
a teenage busker sits between hip-hop legacy
as new marble faces arrive in constant rotation.
I’m waiting for my estranged brother dance,
who ran out on me despite his free diary entries.
Desperate for reunion. Bitter for the jives lost.

I’ve stepped further than I ever pictured
but I’ll never walk away from the stalking wolves.
Cubs are warned but continue to ignore all advice.
Lions that scrap with the pack tell me to enjoy the plains.
So I forget the bites and burn this poem in my future face.

What stuff is this cotton wool behind my eyes?
A knit of foggy fibers holding fast my next thought.
Odd when my mind so flies;
at the age of fifty three I ought
to relish ripe wisdom & cognition,
yet here I am, forgetting where to turn
just to reach the kitchen.

Some mornings
I look at my face
and feel a pang of loss.
Like a thing once
fresh and succulent,
forgotten then found
grayed and desiccated
and stuck to the back
of the fridge.

I exaggerate.

Yet I am too old to be salad.