Thursday, 24 April 2014

This be MY verse. Day 24 of 30

So, a late night thought turned into this overnight.

This be my verse.

From nowhere, the smell of sharpened pencils,
him in the waiting room workshop,
Kenneth Williams in full flow on Just a Minute.
Now and again, indecisive light
reflects the likeness of him shaving.

How different and too like
each other we were
becomes misted in the memory of pre shave lotion,
ever-reliable present for Christmas and birthdays.

That phone call.
An undercut silence,
pregnant with love and judgment

conjoined twins no surgeon could separate,
the vocabulary of both Portia and Shylock
danced tangos on your tongue,
even you uncertain which would spill out first,
like a clattering of red wine,
ready to indelibly soak into our spirits.

I was the last son still to believe
you had thought.

Finally a direct question and I would not lie to you.
The phone lines hung lower that day,

two hundred miles of disappointment
sang the long journey south,
the politest word you knew for betrayal. 
No pride in me, except for my service.

Your truth like revenge, served cold,
grated raw, vinegar for dressing.
You never were a talker.
The one way phone calls would fox GCHC,

thinking your half of the transcript missing.
Only now do I see and understand
this was our entire life and yet,
and yet and yet,
knowing all this;
still, love.

1 comment:

  1. Ah, Mark. Simple and shocking - somehow simultaneously passionate and icy cold. Do you think you'll ever read this aloud?