Love stories
The laughter you hear, deep within the interior of the house,
Where the old couple from Italy, have lived for fifty years.
Or the glimpse of the treasured grandson across the road,
Laughing as his cousin chases him with the garden hose.
And the couple you see from the train, as you fly by,
Standing together, hanging their washing on the line.
The elderly man sitting in the cancer centre waiting room,
Leaning into the grey-faced woman at his side.
The young man calling, you’re beautiful, as she skips,
In a dance, her new wig lifting softly from her shoulders.
The daughter listening intently as the doctor speaks,
Her arm around her father, her hand rubbing his back.
It has been so long
If we were still in touch, I think I would
Tell you about this poem I’ve written.
You would recognise the house,
With its geranium thicket at the front fence,
Broken gate, hanging on rusted hinges.
You would know what I mean when
You read, in so many ways, those were the
Days when the rule book was clear.
We knew what was expected, but oh how
We fluffed our lines time after time.
I mention the gate because you never did
Fix it as you said you would. You stayed
Out late, drank too much, fell into arms
That always seemed to be open. What a line
Of girls there was. What emptiness that was.
I prefer to think about the geraniums, their
Red nodding heads in the breeze at the edge
Of the hill where we tried so hard to be.
But it has been so long now, and perhaps
You don’t read poetry anymore.
Saying goodbye
Leaning towards me today,
Across the restaurant table.
Innocence and the sun behind you,
The white-silk skin crossing
Your collarbone, bare before me.
I wanted to run my fingers along
That bony ridge, fall into the hollow of
Your throat, lie prostrate
In freshly fallen snow, where
My aching body wouldn’t show,
Melting into the thaw. Saying goodbye,
Seeing you turn away, laughing.
Heavy rain travelling home,
The constant thud of wind wipers,
The dull-dread rhyme before me.
Fool-ish, fool-ish, fool-ish.
The windscreen wipers should have kept
The faith, but they screeched in protest.
Scattered rains flew behind me,
And I imagined you saying
You’ll wear the rubbers out.
As though your concern
For the tangible mattered,
When a valley of death had been
Crossed, and unbeknownst to you,
This old fool’s chant rings on.