SPOTLIGHT: One Week, One Span of Human Life

Monday morning


You’ve tugged and tugged
as children do
and I resisted it all
for a principle of my own
which doesn’t concern you.

And then there you are
as I make to leave
on the front porch steps
in defeat
hunched over knees
that are capped by the chin
as deflated children
and dogs do.

You don’t even
resurrect the argument
as I lurch slightly to step
over the blockage of you.

Righting myself
at the bottom I click clack
my way along the path
of your direct line of sight
till I’ve shrunk enough
to fit into the doorway
of the car.

Monday afternoon

Out There

The new veranda is unfinished and unwalled
but various chairs and a paint-splattered table
are placed out there in unfettered spaciousness
by impatience to savour realizations approach.

The mind easily fills in the rest but finds
it doesn’t care to; this open merry display
of anticipation is breeze-buffeted, hence a thing,
and exulted in sunlight for passers-by to see.

Our laughter is clappered off bare concrete
and hobnobs with the croaking of the crows on high;
not near yet neither far but on equal terms of Here.
Unique: this consciously coming into being

to decadent sips of prematurely popped
golden bubbly; it was you popped the question
as to whether there’s any point in actual completion
which had us laughing uproariously at the time.

Monday evening

For Isabel at 3 weeks

I raise both hands together
To cough but remember
The baby.

So it is I sit here
In perfect semblance of prayer

Between mind and matter
The tickle of a tiger’s single hair
And myself.

This filament of ferocious tiger
Ushers me into its lair;
A plaything.

Monday night’s dream

Spaghetti Western

A speck with geometry enough
to suggest a nick of projection
could be a homestead, a gift
nestled into its valley’s protection,

could be a sign of life
or death round these parts
but investigate you must if
it’s all there is to grasp at,

not to mention its own
and your image evanescing
scorched in sheer radiation

so keep moving, keep moving
there can be no decisions;
you’re almost less than alone.

Tuesday morning

Held by the Monitor’s Quivering Blue

your ‘Hi’ is more beep
of registration, a placing me
in that scheme of things
of which you are now composed.

Clamped between the COB and CEO
you exit by a slipping
out into the meeting room
and enter this hour allotted you,

slotted into your work day;
you’re officially expected
to let your hair down now,
relax the muscles around your mouth.

Within your rigid function –
warm computer –
we’ll rustle ourselves up a flower
albeit via this other language

that must be maintained
so is sanctioned for study;
English: your makeshift window,
teleporter, search light and verifier.

Lo and behold we stand,
breeze-blown alone, in your garden
by that ‘natural lake’
you dug, filled and populated.

Before long the lights are on full
in the form of the sun.
We have escaped, not from,
but to you; so what from?

Did you learn anything?
Did I teach? Whatever
it might have been is pencilled in:
same time next week, same place.


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