Multiplastic

W aiting for an Appointment Starbucks headset fighter pilots In a seatless, caffeinated cockpit Blinking lights and mysterious buttons Serve me an Americano Bitter like a cancelled train As hot as a torn hangnail A man with his back to me searches For a job, for news, for football results Files admin in WordPress grey The coffee kicks me like a poem   April 2024

Yann Live piano in the library café Yann Tiersen I can’t remember the name of the tune But I’m transported anyway   April 2024

Sandy Brown On 25 th March, around 7:15pm, four babies were born worldwide. Meanwhile, our tap water had turned sandy brown. At 7:20 I rang United Utilities and a disembodied voice called Keith gave me instructions, When a man in Sheffield felt his heart falter with an angina attack. At 7:30 I followed Keith’s instructions, “a shoestring trickle” and drove to Asda for bottled water, While the war in Yemen entered its tenth year. At 8pm, while a deep-sea robot off the coast of Peru discovered several new species of crustacean, I put on a film to watch. At 9pm I opened the first of two cans of cider While 5¼ million farmed animals were slaughtered At 10:30pm we went to bed, slept for eight hours, got up at 6:30 the next morning and performed our usual morning routines. Overnight, a further two Palestinians were added to the body count in Gaza, Ghanaian authorities deported a family of refugees from Burkina Faso, five people were injured in a Russian missile attack on ...

Questioning the Knife Angel (a sonnet)   How much blood has stained your rusted feathers The DNA absorbed into the steel Locked and soldered in your wings forever? Do the lives taken make your life more real? How many rapes are held inside your chest? The edges of your lungs across their throats Terrified eyes built the heart in your breast Welded, made solid from screams and tears broke At which end of the knife is fear greatest The hand that might kill, or the one that might die? Do handles soak up sweat, shaking hatred Or the reason why they lifted a knife? And is there an answer in your blank eyes? Can your empty hands save even one life?   March 2024

Alcohol Doesn’t Change You   Roaring drunk, boring drunk Dancing, prancing and chancing drunk Wobbles drunk, beer goggles drunk Drunk as a lord and a lordly skunk Going home to the wrong house drunk Everybody’s pal and I love you drunk Pissed as a fart, stinking drunk Queue for the loo, I’ve had a few drunk Lost all night covered in mud drunk Unable to tell the joke for laughing drunk Loud drunk, ranting drunk Falling down drunk, rolling around drunk I’ll do anything you tell me to drunk Time to go home an hour ago drunk Distracted drunk, protracted drunk Can’t see to pay the taxi driver drunk Ever-increasing around my trunk Brewer’s droop and snoring drunk Paying the taxi driver in sweeties drunk Giving you my life story drunk Shots sound like a great idea drunk But never ever evereverevereverevereverevereverevereverevereverever Ever I don’t love you drunk.   (February 2024)

Nothing Would Stop Them Doing So (a villanelle) In his 1968 book, The Empty Space the theatre director, Peter Brook talks about a visit he made, in 1946, to the bombed-out city of Hamburg. This is what he wrote: “In the burnt-out shell of the Hamburg Opera only the stage itself remained – but an audience assembled on it whilst against the back wall on a wafer-thin set singers clambered up and down to perform The Barber of Seville, because nothing would stop them doing so.” (Ch2, The Holy Theatre, p49) And here’s the poem:   Even in a theatre of rubble and dust Nothing would stop them doing so They shared their art like they knew they must Creating a performance as holy as lust That cannot be beaten down by a ‘no’ Even in a theatre of rubble and dust Building a city of rotted timber and rust A Seville only the audience could know When they shared their art like they knew they must Then you say you can’t draw, can’t write, can’t be fussed And I want to slap wh...

Generations The tall man doesn’t move with confidence He’s careful As if he’s been made aware Many, many times over Of the length of his limbs Of the weight of his flying hands Of how the scattering of ornaments Is accompanied by the shattering of voices The grey woman doesn’t speak with confidence She’s careful and quiet As if she’s been made aware Many, many times over Of the fragility of her position Of how annoying her voice can be Of how her weightless opinions Are accompanied by crushing laughter We lash out and we lash down In moments of learned repulsion Projecting self-images onto those who lash down in their turn Passed on like ginger hair and favourite recipes Honouring a tradition that began before memory An unbroken chain Without a weak link.   February 2024

The 25 th of January (To be read, out loud, in an earwax-meltingly strong Salford accent)   Is that an honest, sonsie face On my chieftain of the puddin’ race Staring back from on my plate Of neeps and tatties? Eaten on my birthday late A portion of haggis I knew about Burns since I was seventeen But Rabbie’s verses always seemed Impossible for me to glean Any feeling From a language that had been Deemed demeaning Then I discovered that J-C-C Could share his birthday cake with me And maybe together we could be Celebrating wins On the twenty-fifth of January As poetry twins But I’ve never met the Salford Bard And I find his accent hard So I’ll play the comedy card When the air gets colder Keeping my softer side under guard Another year older   January 2024  

The Writers   The writers found me sleeping on their hollow hills They drew me in and showed me wonders: Places I could never render in pencil and paint Foods I did not dare to eat Pleasures I had never before imagined They held me for a day and returned me after seven years The writers have infected me Corrupted my blood with the cholera of creativity And the righteous rabies that wakes me at four A.M. Foaming at the mind Afraid to drink reality The writers have trapped me In their gothic mountaintop castle Despite the villagers’ warnings not to go near. They hypnotized me with burning eyes And the perversions of the elite, Threw their cloaks about my head And sank their fangs into my throat. And now I have no choice Except to become one of them.   1 January 2024

Manchester Poets in Clerihew Form (a few, anyway) John Darwin Thinks it’s a sin Not to buy a drink at last orders But that’s okay, his poems break borders Eve Ginsberg Queer Jewish I’ve heard With Baruch and Amein She sets a fine scene Dominic Berry Heart as bright as a cherry Has taught us how to use Beetroot juice Keri-Ann Moriarty Loves a good party She won’t need the bus When she’s a weaponized octopus Dave Morgan Doesn’t make foregone Conclusions about the birds He prefers to observe Gerry Potter As slick as an otter Didn’t feel he needed to hide When Margaret Thatcher died Rosie Garland Had a fine hand At being a lesbian vampire queen But she’s too lovely to be really mean Richard Easton Doesn’t like to feast on Kale But he doesn’t mind Adam’s Ale. Helen Shenton Is thoroughly bent on Exorcising the past And making a future that lasts Ali Dav Lets us have A taste of Ryebank Fields When her boots are on her heels. Tony Curry Doesn’t ...

Coming Out?   How do you come out to your mother? When she’s eighty years old When she’s been your mother for nearly sixty years When her life is made of coach trips, doctors’ appointments And the vicarious adventures of tiny grandchildren When you still take off your nail varnish before visiting How do you come out to your dad? When he’s been dead for three years And before that, dementia And before that, angina, heart problems, Parkinson’s And before that, there was never a time, or a place Or an appropriate moment How do you come out to your wife? When you’ve been married for fifteen years And together a decade longer When you’ve shared the traumas of poverty, lost siblings and cancer diagnoses When old friends can’t name one of you without thinking of the other. How do you come out to your kids? When you’ve been dad, and always dad, for thirty years When you’ve fought to remain dad over ever-increasing distance and time When you’ve never taken on ...

Body Hair   There’s hairs in my armpits and fur on my bum Hairs on my legs, feet, toes, fingers and thumbs There’s hairs on my ears and hairs up my nose There’s hairs on my head, but I’m quite fond of those There’s hairs on my chin and other parts of my face Odd, spikey bristles all over the place The hairs on my shoulders are sprouting away But the hairs on my chest are all going grey There’s weird tufts of hair in the small of my back A forest round my nadgers, hairs up my crack If I ever happen to be naked, perchance I look like I’m growing my own underpants But being hairy, I’ve considered the notion There’s a lot to be said for evolution So I don’t care what opinions other people take I am, quite definitely, descended from apes   November 2023

Beauties   We were glorious then As tall as thistles We danced between whirlwinds of dust and dogshit mountain ranges Discovered whole cities beneath concrete slabs And we were such beauties when We painted our real faces over our masks Danced in the shadows between strobe light and snare drum Uncovered our secret flesh in secret places We were glittering when We forged our bonds, and then broke them to make them stronger Danced between lovers and disapproval Recovered pleasures long neglected and forgotten We can be magnificent now When we dance across trip-hazard rooms To rediscover ourselves, fierce and fearless And offer up our hearts on the altar of words And we will have been such legends when We peek out from forgotten stacks of yellowed paper Dancing only from mouth to ear No taller than a photograph No heavier than a name.   November 2023

Deep Flow *   5, 6, 7, 8 . . . and then we moved Faltering, forgetting where our feet had grown Stiff as the rusted springs in our spines Too slow even to disturb the dust that had settled on our shoulders 1, 2, 3, 4 We were the world in a church hall A dozen faces, languages, ages A dozen attempts to learn together, a thousand miscommunications 5, 6, 7, 8 . . . and then we moved Out of synch and out of time Broken clocks a second or two behind Hands ticking in the wrong direction, but always starting on the right 1, 2, 3, 4 We were too early, too late, too absent Filled with hopeful worries Held back by weather-eye commitments, sandwiched between traffic jams 5, 6, 7, 8 . . . and then we moved We scraped like metal on metal on metal Claimed our silver place between fire-red and blue water Stood witness to wood and earth, applauded as green became yellow 1, 2, 3, 4 We were lost in search of coffee Well fed in discussions of place and culture G...

My Books “How many books in your bag, Dad?” “One or two, usually”, I replied. “There’s two hundred in mine” And I felt that two hundred books would weigh heavier than a clerical conscience. I was wrong. My son reads on a Kindle, But the words are the same. My son’s books measure seven, by five, by half an inch thick, With a weight of twelve ounces. All rendered in metric, of course. My books are dinosaur huge and ponderous, Ravenous and bloated with owls and snakes, ancient machines and bellies full of woodland crafts. Constipated with rigid philosophies, pompous poems and David Bowie’s costumes. My books are tiny, lost and scared survivors, Hiding between the pages of larger books for safety and content by osmosis, Shy with occult wisdom, flicked-through fierce with sharp nonsense-true teeth. My books are fat, and thin, and muscular. Lifting kettlebell recipes and singing deaf and dumb songs in coded coda form. They dance without moving, but their sweat stil...

Food – Xmas Poem (a sonnet)   For Christmas this year we will have moon cakes With a side of gefiltefish and yams The next course laddu and samosas baked And finish with some kashk-o bademjan Bring to the table some Diwali sweets For Eid a shiny fig pudding is fine Spiced rice for Nowruz and savoury treats Steamed Brussels sprouts for Navratri nights nine Rainbow sponge for Hannukah, mince pies for Pride For Easter latkes and sufganiyot Big chocolate eggs for new Kwanzaa-tide Roasted tofurkey to top off the lot Despite our “reasons” for oth’ring and hate We’ve one thing in common, all of us eat.   October 2023

Chestnuts – Xmas Poem (a villanelle)   Are your chestnuts roasting on an open fire Is Jack Frost nipping at your toes Does your plastic tree reach ever higher? Do you turn the heating a little bit higher Or add another layer of clothes While chestnuts roast on an open fire? Does the wild wind blast through the mire Of cheesy television shows And your plastic tree reaches ever higher? Don’t you wish your walls were dryer And dad’s angina wasn’t getting worse When chestnuts burst on an open fire? And the kids hadn’t called you a liar About knock-off toys, too dear for your purse And a plastic tree reaching ever higher? I wish you everything you desire The things that would make your heart burst That the plastic tree grows ever higher And the chestnuts don’t set the house on fire!   October 2023

Sorry Rudyard (I know you meant well)   If you can lose your head after 8 pints of fruit cider, and your mates have to stop you from decking someone. If you can think that 8 pints of fruit cider at night and the gym in the morning isn’t some sort of a contradiction. If you can let off fireworks at 3am because it’s a laugh, and believe that speed limits are just a loose guideline. If you can think KFC is a meal and ever say, “Mmmmm, bacon!” to a vegan.   Ever! If you can imagine that “Look at the tits on that” and “I’d shag it” are somehow complimentary. If you can only watch pornography that is generic, anonymous and predictable. If you can dress in black and grey tracksuits and haircuts identical to your mates and pay a fortune for trainers that look the same as any other trainers, because if you tried something different they’d take the piss. If you can pretend to repeatedly punch your girlfriend in the face in public, because you’ve no idea how to show actual...

Kevin’s * Question   Kevin offered the group a question A metaphor “When does the sun shine on you?” And we answered Some said When they’re playing with their grandchildren Some said When they’re cultivating their garden Some said When friends love to eat their cooking I said that the sun shines on me When I’m performing on a stage What I didn’t say Is that I burn easily. October 2023   * Kevin Edward Turner of Company Chameleon Dance Company, Openshaw

Do the Gods Dance?   Does Shiva Nataraja dance Flamenco Stamping heels shattering the world Moment by moment Making it new To the rhythms of Spanish guitar? Does Ame-no-Uzume dance the Dervish Her whirling feet raising the dawn Robes falling away Body on display So the Kami laugh with joy at what they see? Does Bastet the Cat dance the Tango Slinking, sly, duende , towards her prey Blades hidden behind A silky head nudging A purring trill and tangling limbs abrazo ? Does drunken Dionysos dance Ecstatic Spinning, stamping, snapping every rope That binds us to be Only what we see And not whatever we could become? Om, nama Shivaya, Nataraja Uzume-san, o homemasu Evoi Dionysos Hzi Bastet Come dance with me and I’ll dance with you.   September 2023

Working On It   “Do the inner work” they say, “For your mental health, it’s the only way” But I don’t want to work today Why can’t I do the inner play? Work hard to be a great success But I feel I must confess That just sounds like a lot of stress Do I really need to be the best? Work in the garden, work on the house Start every day with a good workout Work on your marriage, work with your spouse Work on your poems and never grouse Find your work ethic and never shirk Find a working title for your great work. You idle work-shy bastard, get up and do the work On yourself, so you’ll be less of a jerk To workshop this idea, if I may: Is working really the only way? To search for joy on a shitty day Surely requires a little play.   September 2023

The Coffee Queen   She’s Kelly, the coffee queen Behind the counter at Costa She keeps her machinery clean Knows all the names on the roster And Kelly the coffee queen Learns every regular’s order Their lives, their hopes and dreams With her own gregarious banter Kelly the coffee queen Wipes the worktops and takes off her hat Walks alone to wait for the train Has pizza and wine, alone in her flat And by the time she’s drunk and the telly’s just crap And it’s too dark to see the damp spots and mould She curls up in her duvet and turns her back On the photos of the grinning ten-year old And in the morning she opens the shutters Switches on and checks the machines Smiles and greets her customers Where she’s Kelly, their coffee queen   September 2023

Sestina I try to write my poem But the muse has again deserted me And so I stare blankly at the white page Wishing I understood how to create Beauty and tears, or howling mad laughter With just a few, well-chosen flowing words I’m bright, I know lots of words But it’s hard work to make them a poem And much harder to cause peals of laughter Unless it’s something stupid about me Idiocy, I don’t need to create That nonsense writes itself onto the page I’m starting to fill the page Counting the syllables in all the words Of the Sestina I want to create It’s a bloody tricky sort of poem I’m worried that the effort will drive me To a breakdown and mad, manic laughter So far there is no laughter Just slowly adding more thoughts to the page And noticing it’s become about me And less and less about the chosen words That build up this migraine of a poem That I so stupidly want to create But it’s the urge to create And feeling the need to inspire laughter That make...

The Binge Drinker (iambic pentameter)   Let’s raise a toast : To relaxation and feeling so free To shyness washed away and broken bonds To loosened tongues and camaraderie To everybody all talking at once And here’s : To Bacchic abandon, needing to dance To manic laughter at nothing at all To beer goggles and everyone’s gorgeous To not noticing she don’t want to know And let’s raise a toast : To eyesight blurred, lost bags and lost posture To hours lost for good in total blackout To waking still pissed next to a stranger To “Where the hell did you get to last night?” And here’s : To violent regrets, brewer’s droop and vomit To heartburn, shakes, shits, an arsehole wiped raw To sickening dreams and paranoid guilt To never again, to swearing no more So let’s raise a toast : To the utterly ridiculous fact And that even after all of this time Despite the stupid escapades I’ve had I still quite enjoy the ‘odd glass’ of wine.   August 2023 ...

Action Man   He’s the toy aisle’s most masculine man With crew-cut hair and gripping hands Stomping around in military chic But Action Man hasn’t got a prick! I was taught when I was at school And this was, of course, the golden rule That we’re governed by biology Double-X makes a girl and XY makes a he Action Man doesn’t have chromosomes Yet he’s the manliest man you’ll ever know He’s Mr Macho, tough and strong Even though he’s got no schlong When it comes to that, Barbie too Hasn’t got a . . . foo-foo No “biological necessity”, no DNA But she’s a successful woman , all the way So what makes Action Man a man, Because it’s clearly not what’s in his pants? And what makes a woman?   We should pry. There’s more to this than meets the eye. Perhaps ‘man’ and ‘woman’ aren’t bodily features Perhaps they’re behaviours our society teaches And knob or flange doesn’t get to decide How we ought to live our lives We can learn so much from a plastic toy Ab...

Doin’ Stuff   Bring me my pen and notebook, coffee shop laptop, cut, copy and paste. Bring me brush and pencil, heavy paper, colour, line, shade and hue. Bring me my lawnmower, shears, secateurs.   Bring me planting and compost. Bring me yoga mats, downward dog, white crane spreads its wings and Alexander techniques. Bring me the stage, the audience and the character, script, rehearsal and games.   Bring me contact improv. Bring me double strings, embouchure and finger-holes, right-hand keyboard and left-hand bass buttons.   Bring me chords, melody, cadence and a song to sing. Bring me saws and chisels, square and plane, timber to build and carve. Bring me pans and knives, spinach, beans and the spice cupboard.   Bring me my blender. Bring me the Rider-Waite deck, the 21 st century ephemeris and the Elder Futhark. Bring me needles and thread, pins, hoops and patterns.   Bring me knitting needles and crochet hooks. Bring me vocabular...

Images from Ken   The sun sets on the horizon like a stained bathroom mirror, while Ann-Margret sings to drive Tchaikovsky to drink, and the 1812 booms out. Deaf, dumb and blind Tommy wrestles naked with Oliver Reed, drinking whisky as the lapping tide rolls in. Amanda Donohoe jams on China Blue’s blonde nylon wig and fucks a whole battalion of Nazi soldiers on Roderick Usher’s rattling coffin. Gustav Mahler battles the Franken-Wagner with a sword forged from his own Magen David and regrown foreskin, so Glenda Jackson can paint the scene in tones of Derbyshire rain. Hordes of screaming nuns tear Lord Byron to opium-addled pieces, while Hitler’s fluffy white kitten uncaringly washes her paws and curls up to sleep. Salome paints herself blue and snake-dances with a naked Georgie Hale along the shore of Lake Windermere, and fields burn in the distance. And behind it all Setting fire to irrelevant reviews full of ‘auteur’, ‘b ête noire’ and ‘enfant terrible’ Champagne...

Punch a Nazi in the Face (a villanelle)   I believe in tolerance and grace In diversity, openness and care And punching Nazis in the face We must embrace the human race Find our commonalities there In a spirit of tolerance and grace But when my friends are told their place Is not to be, to exist nowhere I want to punch those Nazis in the face I stand with the Queer, take my place With the Jew, the trans, the non-binaries there Believing deeply in tolerance and grace But we need to cut to the chase To tolerate intolerance is unfair So punch that Nazi in the face That vicious ideology has no place In my world of diverse richness where I believe in tolerance and grace But also punching Nazis in the face.   July 2023

The Transgender Agenda (a pantoum) The tabloid press may froth at the mouth But take it from an eighties gender-bender However much they scream and shout There’s no such thing as the trans-agenda Take it from an eighties gender-bender And a quick look through human history There’s no such thing as the trans-agenda There’s the glory of human variety With a quick look through human history When Ray Davies loved Lola, and Genet, Mimosa There’s the glory of human variety Right back to Winkte, the Galli priesthood and Hijra Ray Davies loved Lola and Genet, Mimosa And Holly from Miami F.L.A. became a she Like the Winkte, the Galli priesthood and Hijra Pharoah Hatshepsut wore a beard and became a he Before Holly from Miami F.L.A. became a she Emperor Elegabalus did it in the year two-twenty-two Pharoah Hatshepsut wore beard and became a he None of this business is anything new Emperor Elegabalus did it in the year two-twenty-two Now TERFs and right-wingers invent ...

T he Amazon at the Back (a sonnet)   Skinny kids dancing en pointe in tutus And impossible to hide at the back Six feet tall, boobs disability huge An Amazon dances a perfect track A better dancer than the other girls Her grace and power underline her size But though she’ll plié, pirouette and twirl She’ll never get the chance to live their lives A perfect misfit, Amazon in pink No matter how skilled, you won’t get a break Too big, wrong shape, but I’ll raise you a drink And wish you joy in each step that you take May you burn so bright from your dancing heart You blind the eyes of those who say you can’t   July 2023

List Poem (perform each stanza in one deep breath)   The shopping on Monday, the shopping on Friday The shopping I missed in the middle of the week Birthdays, holy days, Christmas cards and who gets a present A diary of all my appointments Conferences I’ve attended, shows that I’ve seen The books I have read this year What poems I’ve performed and where The complexities of Celtic grammar The films of Ken Russell, David Lynch and of Marvel The collected films of Derek Jarman Films by Gilliam, Greenaway, Waters, Fellini, Jodorowsky and Meyer The films of Hammer Horror Foods that I and the kids like to eat, foods that my wife won’t hate Where to get serotonin, B12 and tyrosine Favourite recipes The tunes we play in the band, the tunes we’re playing next The session tunes I ought to learn and the ones that I play best What my BMI is and what it ought to be Exercises, yoga and tai chi routines. Healthy ways to make dopamine All of the places I’ve lived and...

Nostalgia   Wasn’t it better, being young and free Riding a Chopper, watching Jackanory? Dreaming in tones of sepia and burgundy Is not for me. I’ve got a poor memory. Back then us kids respected our elders Said thank you and please and held doors Took six of the best and didn’t need more. I’m not so sure. My memory is poor. A fuzzy golden blanket, warm and light Mastermind games and dad’s always right Defending the heart from today’s evil shite. Is that right? I don’t recall if that’s right? I know that the future looks cold, hard and scary Too bright for weak eyes and bones getting weary But a half-imagined past is not my retreat That’s not for me. I cherish my poor memory. July 2023

Three Colours Tanka   Grey Pied wagtail bounces Seeks meals between paving slabs Grey pigeon displays I drink harsh coffee and write Watching rain through the window   Yellow Rain and wind throw down Leaves and yellowing blossom People wear their coats Yesterday it was sunny The coffee shop plays reggae   Green City plants are tamed Trimmed, and battered by buses Wildness not allowed I walk along Oxford Road Smile at weeds in the paving.   July 2023

Facebook Sonnet (iambic pentameter) Facebook my primary dopamine source Scrolling and scrolling for another hit You’re making it ever harder to force Me to stick my phone back in my pocket Facebook, my darling, your viddies are weird Five Minute Crafts teach you how to make tat Indian blokes show off goats that they reared But then the adverts: WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT? What on earth would make you think that I would Want to buy underpants made of bamboo, And why the heck do you think that I should Be on the lookout for love that is true? But, then again, funny pictures of cats And daft dogs acting like big hairy prats   June 2023

God is a Nightclub God is a nightclub called Ahavat Olam Where Jesus dances with Bacchus and DJ Buddha works the decks. Ganesh and Elegua stand by the doors And check you out before they let you in God is a nightclub called Ahavat Olam Where Lao Tzu frees you from money and Bugs Bunny swaps a ticket for your coat Mohammed, peace be upon him, is the tea-total manager But he likes an occasional dance The three Marys, behind the bar, laugh politely At jokes that they don’t understand Loki collects glasses, sells baggies of E’s And Odin gets wasted trying to chat up the girls God is a nightclub called Ahavat Olam Where the music is too loud to think But just right to dance and sweat and lust Just right to feel sacred Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva have their corner, But only Shiva likes to dance He’s trying to impress golden Oshun But, then, so is everyone else. God is a nightclub called Ahavat Olam And the final slow dance is being played Oshun has chosen a man for ...

Bradley Smiles Bradley spots me on the Whitefield platform. Walks up, smiles, and asks “What instrument is that?” Normal people don’t just talk to strangers Bradley doesn’t really know what a mandolin is And comparisons don’t help But he knows a few chords on guitar He smiles when he tells me he can play Wonderwall Bradley’s age doesn’t show on his face But he tells me he’s a student at the Royal Northern And, smiling, that he plays the drums Proudly shows me his lanyard ID I’ve gone quiet now Awkward in the face of an innocence that I can’t know, But Bradley spots a friend He smiles when he greets her with a hug She’s older, talks to him like a favourite schoolteacher Asks him about his progress, his health, his family. And when we get off at Victoria Bradley spots me, smiles and waves a goodbye And I wonder, Just for a moment If I could escape from me And only for the length of a moment If I could be Bradley.   June 2023  

The Glasses Man The glasses man made boxes in his shed and covered his glasses with sawdust His hands shook only a little bit then He cleaned them with a tissue from the roll in the kitchen The glasses man lifted them up to read the tiniest print To do the crossword He soaked them with sweat when he dug in the garden Too hot, too hard for a man of his age Bifocals turned his feet to blurry shadows When he walked down the stairs He learned how, in time, to walk with his head down The glasses man was thin and healthy young, Barrel-shaped in middle-age, and then fading Like a skin-and-bone kid in his dad’s glasses and giant t-shirt The glasses man’s arms danced when he wanted to sit still His mind worked on building sites in 1978 Sometimes he took his glasses off   May 2023