Aftershock

Bricks scattered like toys after playing,
a pig rooting in a flowerbed,
the cot, the couch, the fireplace buried,
masks hiding the mouths and noses
of men who lift stone from bone,
children sifting ashes for what is broken,
tumbling already out of memory.

What survives: cup, comb, picture frame,
bunting got ready for a festival,
crops waiting in accusing ripeness,
a girl who startles birds to flight and laughs.

Published, 2003, in The Rialto, Issue 54.

That's it

The nurse hoisted him into the car,
shoved the wheelchair into the boot,
pecked him and said goodbye and meant it.
He was a shell, not full of years but emptied of them.
As his daughter drove past the gagged
windows of the old tobacco factory
towards the bright ribs of the new stadium
he spotted a girl walking, eighteen or nineteen,
white trousers stretched tight.
Great big arse, he thought.
He managed a twitch. His daughter said,
What you thinking about Dad? He said,
That's it, great big arse.
That was it all right. She did not ask again.

Published, 2003, in Ambit, Issue 172.

Chatting her up

A boy and girl drag themselves to the back of the bus.
He mumbles the slurred syllables of methadone.
He intends to impress his dark haired, dark eyed girl
who folds her hands like a nun and contemplates the windscreen wipers
while he displays for her admiration
the tapestry of his suicide attempts.

He took the sharpest kitchen knife to bed
mother in an oooh of horror found him too soon.
On the empty stairs of the flats at two a.m.
he slung a rope across a bannister and would have launched himself
but for a man from God-knows-where hunting down a deal.
I would jump from the balcony he says but with my luck
they'd have built a fucking swimming pool there before I hit the street.

She giggles, then sits in silence
watching the rain smack against the windows
thinking perhaps of sipping multicoloured cocktails
by hot Spanish poolsides in the healing sun.

Published, 2003, in Ambit, Issue 172.