The Night Horse

The lines are mixed, twisted, confused.
Suffused with G&T and wine.
It's futile. It's all futile.
It's beyond pointlessness.
Check shirt, red waistcoat -
you got it spot on.
Corrosive, penetrating.
So what do I do?
What do I do?
What to do?
Stand, face open, arms outstretched?
Or?
Much easier.
Oh yes, much easier.
Do I sit. And return.
To this. My one love.
To this love. The only
constant. I give up.
I give up. Eyes wide open,
Head up. Neck straight.
Deep inhalation.
Wait.

So it's off to the nunnery I go.
To the nunnery.
Nunnery yes. To the nunnery
I go. I see fields, and deep water,
and flowers, and sky and bloated clouds.
I see bottles, cafe windows, and startled butterflies,
and burnt robins and cut grass.
I see floating newspapers, and tiredness
and laughing faces and haggard eyes.
I see green shoes, and cobbles, and wet pavement.
I see chewing gum stuck to the underside
of my seat, and mumbling behind.
Painted nails. Chewed fingers.
Nibbled pens. Empty hands.
Greasy windows. Sad eyes.
Lost embraces. Orange lights.
Numbers. Words. Paint.
Data. Signs.
Arrows. Hands. Fists.
Stomach. Fingers.
I feel cold air.
And warm breath.
Too intense.
Two in tents.

Twisted ankles. Broken toes.
Fingerless gloves. Scribbling hands.
I see courage. Bravery.
Courage. Bravado.
Sweet peas. Lilies.
Big blue necklaces.
Birthday cards.
Thank-you notes.
Sneezing.
Stasis.

Bad haircuts. Dull notes.
Polite nods. Half-empty beer glasses.
Drunk vodka. Smashed glass.
Scattered petals. Scattered thoughts.
A broken promise. An echo.
A pretty face. Lowered gaze.
Hope.
A heart beating.

To begin again.
To begin again.
To begin again.

Pause. Breath. And I'm done.

Not a poem exactly...

The Bag Man

First there was Molly.
The Bag Man thought a rucksack
was best for Molly. A big green one.

In the rucksack he placed memories, hopes and wishes.
He placed a few fears in there too. His own, of course.
Molly could carry them. She was good like that.

Whilst still packing the rucksack for Molly,
he spied a very pretty pink bag,
elegant with pale yellow handles.
Perfect. I’ll have that, said The Bag Man.
But it wasn’t right for Molly.

Luckily, just at that same time, along came Holly.
The pink bag looked like leather but was actually plastic.
Holly wouldn’t be able to tell the difference,
thought The Bag Man.

But there was still Molly to deal with.
The Bag Man filled the green rucksack right to the top.
It was very heavy.
He helped Molly put on the rucksack.
Well, he was a gentleman after all.
He waved goodbye and went on his way.

The pink bag suited Holly perfectly.
The Bag Man congratulated himself.
The pink bag was just the perfect length
for a dead baby he’d found – best to put it in the bag.
So he did. Around the dead baby he placed guilt, shame
and compassion. He didn’t need them
where he was going.

The pink bag was beginning to smell.
Was it the dead baby?
Luckily, just at that same time, he came across
an even better bag. One that didn’t reek.

This new bag seemed sturdy enough,
white leather with a gold clasp.
This will do, thought The Bag Man.
Yes, this will do nicely.
He handed the pink bag to Holly
and gave her a little wave goodbye.

Then he turned to face Dolly.
And handed her the white leather bag with a gold clasp.