Wednesday, 27 November 2013

My Balls and the String in my Pocket

I see you both every day,
Morning, noon and night,
And seven-something,
Linked by a strap
At the end of my sight,
Alsatian and Caucasian,
Slow and passive,

I see you both at night,
You two,
One dog and his man,
I first nodded,
Long ago,
Walking while I ran.

Every day and everywhere,
There you both are,
Six am at the bus stop bench,
Half-past midnight,
Pacing past the Spar.

You two are always out,
I know your beanie more than you,
And your lustrous coat,
Which once I drew.

You two,
Beanieman and mutley,
Are everywhere I am,
Where do you get the time?
What else have you got?
Except each other and the stroll?
What burning passion?
What secret goal?

Suddenly it strikes me,
I am everywhere you are,
I am out every bit as much,
Everywhere as far,
Every bit of it,
The same great escape,
From the same locked hutch,
The same screwed jar.

Where do I get the time?
And what else have I got?
Other than the stroll?
What burning passion?
What glorious goal?

Last month,
You disappeared,
From the end of my road,
From the end of my life,
From the end of the south wing,
Of my metaphysical abode.

I pray to God that one day soon,
(please come back)
You shall both re-appear,
Ambling down the road,
A little worse for wear,
I shall be relieved,
Rub the string in my pocket,
And nod on my way past,
Describing my balls,
As peeled lychees,
Gnonggling round,
Within the deflated pink balloon,
Which, pasted with Pritt Stick,
Was dragged hither and thither,
On the unswept floor.

My balls and the string in my pocket -
Always giving something more,
Than our shadows,
Stretching out behind us,
In the morning,
Or at dusk,
Or on the stony shore.

No comments:

Post a Comment