Die Hard

I always draw the short straw.

She gets the drumstick.

I should be quicker

more assertive.

Less of a bozo.

That’s the trouble when you share.

In our circle

old courtesies die hard.

The lady goes first.

The Case

You can bring the case in if you like, she says.

It may not want to come in, he says.

It’s a suitcase, she says. They don’t have a voice.

This one does, he says.

He goes out the door, to the car, where he lifts the lid of the boot. He looks at the suitcase for a few minutes.

What are you doing? she says. Talking to it?

Listening. It doesn’t want to come in.

Why not?

You know why not. Things deteriorate. We argue, say things that no one should say to another. I storm out, or you tell me to leave. It’s almost routine.

They look at each other, They have been here so many times before.

So what does the suitcase say? she asks.

It’s staying. In the boot , he says. It’s adamant about that.

How can a suitcase be adamant?

I’m ready for a quick getaway, it says.

Suit yourself.

That’s a bad joke, he says.

So you coming in?

I suppose so, just as soon as I close the boot.

No !

I’m sorry I said NO

to you

& you

& you

all those times

diminishing yr world

I could have done better

withholding affection is a crime

against the human heart

Tricky

You’re tricky, she says, which is sort of ironic ‘coz she’s tricky too; and my best buddy can be very tricky and we’ve come to blows on more than one occasion over our mutual trickiness which is even more tricky seeing he’s in a wheelchair though he gives as much as he gets and tonight we’re over a friend’s place for a fuck-you covid meal and although there are a few tricky moments we manage to get on over pizzas, two bottles of red, Bailey’s Irish Cream and a few espressos which just goes to show what a resilient species we humans are

Please Don’t Call This Love

I’m not yr punching bag

Not yr piñata

So give me a break

what is it you are after

 

I’m not yr pincushion

Not yr whipping boy

so why are you so intent

on stifling my joy

 

Yr not my parole officer

you are not my judge

so don’t cross examine me

& please don’t call this love.

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Quiet Place

We’ve come to a quiet place

a harbor

beyond the squalls and storms

of yesterday

where nerves frayed

we tore each other’s hearts

away

a quiet place

a harbour

to berth our frail vessels

a good place to stay

 

• photo courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Here’s Another Nice Mess You’ve Gotten Yourself Into

after deserting me for a few days

my editor has a change of heart

and decides to return.

Yay! I say to myself.

Says he’s been reading my posts, and how I’ve been floundering without him.

You’ve pulled three posts in two days, he says. You’re sinking.

I know, I say, hanging my head in shame.

Look, he says. It’s no good fighting it. We’re a team. Conjoined twins if you like.

Like Laurel and Hardy? I suggest.

He smiles.

Same arrangement? I say.

Yes, he says. You write. I clean up the mess.

Too Precious

Maybe I was too precious.

Maybe I should have had a thicker skin.

That way I wouldn’t have let the hurt in.

But then I wouldn’t have had that poem.

The equation holds.

Sometimes the best poems come from the deepest hurts.

But maybe I could have tried forgiveness too.

Chelsea spotted it in her comment.

‘Ha! Often that rail has a broken line’.

Maybe I had offended him. I’m not dim

But I am slow.

I should be building bridges. Not walls.

But then I would have had a different poem.

A more upbeat one.

I will try/

The Floodgates

This is how it starts.

You bring up that phone call

At the Jewellers.

It could have waited, you say.

It was important, I snap. You have no sympathy.

Tit for tat.

You go on about my clothes on the back-seat

Of the car.

I go on about your obsession with tidiness.

Stop, can you hear it? You say.

Hear what?

That creaking.

We both listen.

Ahhh, the floodgates, I say.

Let’s not go on with this, you say.

We give each other the peace sign.

Hug.

 

the Blow Off

I’ve had it with you —

You’ve had yr rations —

Your cheap lusts

And easy passions

 

* photo by vera arsic on pexels.com