This is the day.

The smooth expanse of supple black leather that is my desk,
like a stretched and scraped skin left to dry and shine,
the biggest man you ever saw.
And the to-and-fros of bobbing heads from my window.
Tree branches like fingers
groping for that yellowing golden noose
of lamplight.

These are all I have left,
these and my old worn cassette player.
We had good times.

Perhaps I should eat a slice of butterless toast
and go dance new-born in the rain.
This is the day I forget about you.

Tender.

Snippity snap

I was listening open-jawed,
wide
to that soprano
you didn’t like.
I could tell.
Highs and lows. Your cheeks
would burn.

You were playing board games
over your legs.
No ladders,
but I could spy snakes galore.
Biblical proportions.
And they were such that
I had to stare at all the polished shoes
of the cellists in front of me.
But I was stealing
secretly.
Glances of you. To sell off to myself later.
Oh, what an honest thief!

On the bus back,
before we had to get out and walk,
you held my arm in your hand,
Your little grip on my heart,
And slept slept slept.
And I was so warm
and the moment so beat up with hammers
that I tried my best to cry quietly
so I wouldn’t wake you.

Slightly blinded.

I’m going to spend all day
with a stripey jumper
wrapped around my head.
Like some sort of clown shroud.

Warm and dark.
No pictures,
No views.
Just muffled voices
and comforting stripes.

And I might be shouted at
or called a fool.
I might hurt myself,
maybe brake some rules.

But I am still going to spend a whole day
with a stripey jumper
wrapped around my head.
Because this is your stripey jumper.
Because this is part of you.