New shoes are like some people
You're grateful for them
But you don't love them yet.
You just hope you can wear them in
Before you wear them out.
In the Army of Northern Virginia
About half of us had shoes.
Sometimes it was better to go barefoot
Than march all day in some two sizes too small.
When my best friend was killed two days ago
I got to wear his
A pretty good fit, and best of all
It meant that something of him
Could carry on.
He would have done the same for me.
But now it's not the thirty miles
To where we will lay down our arms
For the last time.
I don't have to watch for snipers
In the trees or across the river.
The only things killing me
On this three miles to the bench
Are these new shoes.
I've stuffed paper down the back of the heels
And with every step I'm trying
Not to visualise the seeping blood.
Anyway I've made it,
Maybe I'll get to love them more
On the way back.

Too close
Step back
Refocus
Blink twice
Wipe away
A tear
All the love
You'll ever need
Is staring
You right
In the face.

Mary, mind that man in the old coat
He's limping, there could be something wrong with him.
Peter, come on we're crossing over now
I don't like the look of that woman with the pushchair,
Come on before she blows smoke over us as well.
Brenden, come here please, quickly, that girl just sneezed,
You've got to learn to stay close when we're in town.
Sue, watch out for those teenagers, taking up the whole pavement,
They won't move, let's get in the road for a minute,
Let them come past.
Jim, did you hear that? Oh it's that man over there coughing,
He should be at home,
What's wrong with everybody?

What poems will the robots write
In the next century
When all intelligence is artificial?
Still the nuts and bolts of life probably,
Romanticising about when that's all they were,
The feelings they think they have,
The dream of being more human,
Of wanting to believe the old stories
Where their creators were heroes
Who risked their existence for love
Or God, or to make a difference
To the nuts and bolts.

I never applied for a poetic licence
But as a non poet
The last poem I ever wrote
Was my best.
I deleted it
Or threw it away, as they used to say
Along with my poet's curtains
And my poet's pyjamas
And my poet's slippers
And my poet's pen and notebook.
I knew it  had a couple of good lines,
I didn't need to show them to anybody,
And I knew I couldn't do any better than that.
It was enough for me then.

I could go left at the end of the road
Straight over the roundabout
Then through the town,
Or if it's too busy
I could go right at the traffic lights
And pick up the motorway that way.
It makes no difference
Whatever I decide
Whichever way I go
My thoughts always turn back to you.

I think she is letting me go
Though she doesn't know it yet.
I've seen that look in someone's eyes before
The distance, the glint,
It's the look of love.
It's like she has a secret
She's found a part of herself
That she hadn't even realized she had lost.
Things don't matter to her anymore,
Little things mostly, if I spill the tea
Or forget to buy the biscuits
Or need to shelter in a rainstorm
And get back home late
She is not bothered in the slightest,
So probably she wouldn't miss me anyway.
I suppose she'll tell me when she's ready
And when she does where will I go?
What will I do?
There is someone I need to catch up with,
If they will still have me.