I often pause to think of others.
Like the couple on Beak Street I saw leaning
in against the March wind, pinching
still-fitting 1970’s smeary gabardine
mackintoshes around them like over-stuffed
sausage casings.

He; gaunt and with that sunken on-the-way
from this life look, she; rotund and
waddling with cheap home perm flattened
under a clear plastic penny market rain
hood whilst her free hand drags a
shopping trolley between them both like
an unruly and unwilling square tartan-coated pet.

She chose to wear those opaque tan tights
and they are so cliche, aren’t they,
with her seen-better-days blue brogue comfortable shoes
which shuffle shuffle and scuff along
next to the groceries and the gray nearly-ghost.

He looks like a man who has resolved to
hang on a day longer if he can, for her
sake, or for someone’s sake if not hers.
I’m sure it’s not for his.

His gaping-mouthed breath, like it
must sound loud enough to startle although
the bus window and the rattle of empty seats
mask it from me, sucks his cheeks in and out
with the effort and I see his eyes scrunch
up unseen as he keeps up her pace which he taps
out with a walking stick, stomp, stomp,
stomp like he is grinding out cigarette butts
with every step.

To where and why do they walk so painfully
in this bouncing rain?  What are their
names?  Is this yesterday’s sour wine of
relationships I see through the dragon puff
of diesel exhaust or a glorious culmination?
Or perhaps mainly their reality, unpoetic and
unremarkable except to someone like me who
often pauses to think of others.

To love means my heart does little skips when I
look at my wife  and she hasn’t noticed I’m
looking so I can see the complex mixture of
browns that blend so perfectly to make the color
of her eyes.  It makes me smile.

To be there means to make The Little Kid put on her
Aztec hat, not because it makes her look cute, which
it does, but because it stops her face getting red
and puffy in the bitter wind, even though she looks sweet
with those fluffy red cheeks.

To be at peace means to notice the snoring of the dogs
as they lie stiff-legged in that sun, plush against the
carpet and to smile, again, at the silly sounds a little dog can
make whilst it sleeps.

To be happy means to take all of these things, live
them fully and let them sink slowly into what makes me
who I am right now; a happy man.

To be lucky means that I can tell you about them.

Boy meets girl. Using Maya Angelou
We’re crushes, we’re candy, we’re muscle for hire.
The ripple of pecs, six pack of desire.
Our suntans and biceps, our white-glinting grins.
we star in your dreams full of lascivious sins.

Bug-killing, hole-digging beer-swilling fun
the rubbers of cream to protect you from sun.
The flash of smiles in the dark of the bar,
the press of our hips, the brush against bra.

As much as you hate us, in truth it’s a game
you flicker with passion when we say your name
and fingertips stretch on a sunset beach
to lock intertwined so each caress each.

For the faults and the failings we endlessly list
drop from our thoughts as our lips meet to kiss,
since the truth is, despite what we say to each other
the world would be wasted without you, my lover.

It melts you, this acid love.
Dissolves the bits that you were and leaves
nothing but the framework of you, bawling.
From whole to gone in one easy splash
of liquid misfortune;
just to pour on you, on you, on you.

I’ll reach for your hand without looking
to see if it’s there.

A slight movement,
light,
with a deliberate glide to a stillness.

We’ll turn to face each other on the
beach. Sunset fire in our hair.

Our moment,
together,
share an intimate look that makes time halt.

In our eyes is understanding, the fingers
that brush say it all.

Tidal current,
advancing,
we’re joined, inviolate, inseparable, betrothed.

The wash of the purest blue green sea
licks around our ankles, clear below an azure sky.

Vital moment,
fleeting,
cast off cares and make the bustle of life…stop.

The text
To begin lift the receiver, insert
correct amount and dial the required number.
Insert more coins when indicated by the sound
of rapid beeps. To end the call, replace the
receiver. No change given.

The poem
Let us start this dance, this enrapment;
you shall speak and I shall listen and
together we will carry your words to nations.

Pull me towards you, close so I can feel the brush
of your cheek against my skin. Touch me with that
gentle caress, first here, first there, by a
prearrangement that leads me to connect at one
with the peoples of the world so I may let
your wisdom drift amongst the ether.

When I cry, softly and urgently for more you
must feed me as I demand, for my love is
conditional and can be broken by inattention.

Yet I know, despite this, you can do away with
my passions in an instant if you choose. You
can cast my hand from your face and fling
it against me so my words are muted and I will
no longer hear the beauty of your sweet voice.

But I shall keep a part of you within me, the gold
and silver of your love..for ever.
Until the next time.

You are this in a moment.
A brief and salty moment.
As we soak the sheets
wet through
with our sweat

rung out

from the heat of the flames.

But the fire, so hot, burns
too bright
bright like a sun glint on glass in my eyes
hot like a furnace

crucible hot

ore meltingly hot.

It eats all it can
find.

Until the fresh fire logs I bring
no longer feed it
and the tinder crackles
and spits.

Until the flames shrink and grow small
and glow until they

nearly exist

and the heat turns to a warmth
and the ashes whiten
and blow

in the winds of change.

Until the soot stains remain.

She is writing to him
and the words are so real
that she feels him inside
and she lets out a squeal
with a shudders a feeling so deep
and wanting to keep
an escape from the direness of
this winter.

He’s off far away,
fighting today?
Risking his life?
Who knows but it’s likely.
She hopes he is safe -
she has planned her escape
abandoning her bigoted husband.

He’s so foreign and different
and odd, but so nice
with those eyes like green ice
and his smile which beams
at the camera,
and his voice, and that accent
and the pictures (he’s naked)
and the thrill of the calls at
her lunchtime.

She wakes extra early to match
his time zone
and sends photos of snow on her car
and he religously checks
all his emails and texts
no matter where fate sends his fortunes.

It’s a cruel twist of fate
that the seas part their ways
and she lies lusting for him
as he sighs, so deeply for her
because together, you know, they’d be perfect.