#poem #poetry #sketchbook b

the caller to the radio drifts away
again between the lines
the narrow lines, boxed, white, non-disabled
general parking for the general person
in a green car turning to dust
with two boiled sweets by the gearstick
two boiled sweets: one yellow, one red
and a visitors pass on a blue lanyard
access all areas, at arm's length
observing with controlled decorum
the fugue of life played without opinions
in rational terms beyond the fog
pulled blanket tight on warm days
when mis-remembering the names but not the faces
intoned words do not suffice
and the picture on the pass is more stranger
when here is not the place
this bare uniform but a rude screen
and everything is larger because the world has shrunk
but not in a way noticeable or mentionable
for the cords of the fugue are minor
they will appear in local newspapers
squeezed between junior football and brownies
a name, some more names, and some thank yous
please send no flowers, please no flowers
and will you take a drop, a tot will do you good
bring the roses back to your cheeks
stuff black bags for charity
and keep what you can bare to keep
in a thousand different ways, day in and day out
and the sky is the same, though sometimes grey