The Bum on the Sidewalk

She wasn’t really a bum.

She had a name.

Lauren.

She had a face too

but she asked me not to

photograph it.

But what really attracted her to me

was she was reading a book.

You don’t really associate street people

with reading.

And it was a big book.

Like a Russian novel.

Dostoevsky or Tolstoy maybe.

But it was a home grown novelist.

Bryce Courtenay

a true story about a girl called Jessica.

She was on page 237 and she was only halfway

into it.

We talked briefly.

I put some coins in her cap and left her to it

on the cold sidewalk.

I would like to have known her story

but you can’t be intrusive.

A Cheeky Question

Out already?

Yes.

So what do you do in there? You’re in and out like a flash.

I wash.

In that short time? Where do you wash?

Oh, you know, in the immortal words of The Yardbirds: Over, Under, Sideways, down

Once Upon a Time

We are watching a UFC telecast at the pub.

That’s what we do to each other, I say.

We kick, box, wrestle each other.

Only we do it in words.

Words are much nicer, she says.

I don’t know about that, I say.

Do we really fight like that?

Yes.

We should be on TV.

There’s a show like that on TV now about bickering couples.

There is?

Yes. MAFS. Married At First Sight.

God, she says, we’re not like that, are we?

No, I say, we’re like UFC fighters.

We’re not like that now though , are we? she asks.

No, I wink, but once upon a time …..


*pic courtesy of Wikipedia
 

Beanies

I don’t think I wore my beanie at all last winter.

I took it with me all the time on the bus and in the car just in case I needed it when I got out but I never did.

Beanies always remind me of buds

How they sit clamped over your head

Protecting your ears and the soft skin of cheeks

Like buds protect blossoms.

I guess I needed protecting or maybe just the feeling of being protected.

As spring got closer I kept hanging out for a really cold day

Like kids hang out for xmas.

Having a winter without beanies is like having a summer without going for a swim.

You feel cheated.

• when was a time you felt cheated?

I Do My Best Work in Bed

I do my best work in bed, she said.

I do my best work in bed.

When all is said and done,

I do my best work in bed.

Scurry beneath the covers,

pull the sheet up over my head.

I do my best work in bed, she said.

I do my best work in bed.

It’s where my magic garden is,

my fantastic flower bed

where poems and images blossom

& music plays in my head.

Some think better sitting up,

but I’m too easily misled.

I do my best work in bed, she said.

I do my best work in bed.

• pic by Pinterest
• * have you a special place where you find inspiration?

The Devil’s Got My Throat

 
Can’t you see I’m struggling?

Throw me a rope.

I’ve got so much to say

but the devil’s got my throat.



There’s a bird of Joy inside me

that really wants to fly.

She’s flapping her wings madly.

Let me out, it cries.
 

But I’m dog paddling here

alone in this morass.

So throw me a rope..

I’m running out of gas.

Happy

What I need is another day of the week.

Would that make people happy?

I could divide my time equitably then.

Or perhaps find my doppelganger

and if he has nothing going on in his life

could he stand in for me on occasions

or, better still, on a regular basis,

perks included, of course?

Or, failing that, what would you have me do?

Bifurcate?

Found

.I drive down one of the backroads of desolation, full moon in my eyes, when I see him, shuffling along, hands in pockets.

Hop in, I say..

Are you still whoring with yr other voices? he asks.

Nah, I say. I was trying them on. They didn’t do it for me. You’re the one I want.

It sounds like a song.

Would you like me to sing it?

With your voice? No thanks.

I was sorta lost, I say. You’re my natural voice. Demotic, lyrical at times, a little looney.

You’re my man, my voice says, hopping in, giving me a manly hug.

We drive on, slow, easy, companionable, the full moon in our eyes.

• pic courtesy of pinterest

Except

 

I barfed off and on last night

but my heart wasn’t in it.

If you are going to barf —

‘barf’ is a much nicer word than ‘vomit’ –

you’ve got to be committed,

not lackadaisical

like the time I went to the doctor

for anti-depressants and was refused

because ‘you are not depressed enough’.

I can’t give myself wholeheartedly

to anything, it seems.

‘Except your writing’,

my ex told me.

‘Except your writing’.

• pic courtesy of Pinterest

Home

Lola’s in her basket.

Tiffany’s in her tank.

I wouldn’t want to sleep

out. It is cold and dank.

Soph is in her frame

that sits upon the wall.

She is twenty eight forever

and loves us all.

The food lives in the bread bin,

the pantry and the fridge.

It is there to succour us

that we all may live