Where’s My Bear?
I’m not myself today.
I wasn’t myself yesterday either.
Where are you? she says. Where’s my Bear?
I’m still here, I say.
No, you look like him but you’re not Bear. Go away.
So I do.
Back to my little cubby house in the ‘burbs.
I think of her. I miss her. The good times we had.
Perhaps I have been a little sloppy, solipsistic.
I send her a card. Anyone can send a text.
She texts back. I call.
Come over, Bear. I miss you.
I buy her a bouquet of long stemmed oriental lilies.
We cuddle. We kiss. Like bears.
We have found each other.
pic courtesy of pinterest
You apologize to the cat
the turtle in the tank
the goldfish in its bowl
and yr other half
in her room.
What got into you?
You’re not an IED
primed to go off
at the least provocation.
You coulda done better, mate.
You coulda done better.
After he had stormed off in his Volvo and got home to a torrent of texts, he responded with a fusillade of his own. It was like a naval battle at close quarters, with no quarter given. Someone was going down.
He got in the last word. That was unusual, Perhaps he had gone too far. He need not have said some of the things he said. One particular insult was, in retrospect, very cutting.
He texted a partial rebuttal before he hit the sack. No response. He texted again. And again. Perhaps he had gone too far. Had she…? O God no. It didn’t bear thinking about.
He buried his head under the pillow and tried to sleep. Eventually he crashed. But the nightmares ….
He awoke at six in the morning. His mobile lit up. His arm flew across to grab it. It was from her. A volley of vitriol.
He had never felt so happy.
So what do you do in there? You’re in and out like a flash.
In that short time? Where do you wash?
Oh, you know, in the immortal words of The Yardbirds: Over, Under, Sideways, down
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?
I am going to bed with Mrs. Crasthorpe.
I have been to bed with her before.
It was a most pleasant experience.
Her husband is dead. She is a free woman now.
She is fit and feisty and when she’s breathed in the briny air of Eastbourne, she loosens up and tells me.
She has generously full lips. blonde hair and grey-blue eyes and is the ripe old age of 59.
Nothing unseemly passes between us, however.
Sadly she is an invention of William Trevor.
Why do people I hang out with
all have perfect marriages?
No fall outs.
Just Bill & Coo.
Sweethearts of the Rodeo.
Never a false step.
Never foot in the mouth.
How do they do it?
No more flannelette shirts now it’s November.
No more slippers, dressing gowns, they’re old men’s clothes.
No more ‘Married At First Sight’ or ‘Farmer Wants a Wife’
Real men don’t watch those.
And when you pull up at a red light, no more picking ….
Please, please, I say, no more no-no’s!
I always laughed at cartoons
was astonished before paintings & poems
but now I pass the magazine to you,
the one with the crazy cartoons.
Look at this, I say, & you do and smiles
span our faces & rumble our bellies
like little laughing Buddhas;
Trouble shared is trouble halved,
my mother used to say — but Joy
It is doubled when shared with another.
pic courtesy of Pinterest by John Currin
Love yr top.
Yes, it’s blue and fleecy. So soft and warm.
Yes, like you, I reply.
And we cuddle like clouds.
pic courtesy of Pinterest by BuzzFeed