"kunath" poems
Fredrich Kunath is running out of
World, but I’m resting from work
For a while, so I find my way to
St. James’ Square and ravel up a
Pinch of tobacco, hands trembling.
Behind me, work goes on, and builders
Grapple with drills: the sounds fall
Down from rooftops on all fours.
The sun is in mid-morning, and I
Leave the London Library (of which
I am a benign member) to walk
Around. I pass the Ritz, and the
Underground, and a tourist stops
Me and asks in broken English
Where the Palace is. His family stands
Behind him, bleary eyed and puzzled;
I point him away, and he walks away,
Brown hand pushing his cap out of
His eyes. The crowds are cold-blooded
Today, walking in the sunlight keeping
Pathways congested for a while.
At 11:55, I give up searching for
Nothing, and settle down at a little bench
In Green Park. It’s a quiet space, where
London keeps its cars away, keeps the
Shadows of its buildings at bay.
It’s misty in the park today, and
Around me, people clutch their cameras
Taking pictures. I’m in one of those
Moods again; the ones where I get
In my car and drive around, wasting
Petrol on late night drop-ins to the
Mark Eaton Crematorium, to visit
Slate plaques. Will I run out of
World, like him? I stub my cigarette
And leave, swilling out of the park
And walking back to the Library.
They have some famous dead members:
George Eliot, Virginia Woolf, amongst
Others.
Running out of world seems fantastical
To me: I rather think he ran out of
Time.
Jul 1, 2014
Jul 1, 2014 at 3:11 PM UTC