Wheels on the bus
Go round and round, round and round.
Carry us.
Cleaners, brokers,
One ear off or, surround sound,
All yous, hark
The timetable
Perpetual, it turns found
Into lost.
road
A favour, somewhere outside Havana
Camel back
Fist snack
Taken from
A branch
Hanging low
Over Cadillac
Driven last
On a track
Broken off
From Havana.
Pomegranate
Hip flask
Drunk deep
From lip-
Thirst, taken
Out from glove-
Box locked up
For fear of
Bandit- brigands
Drawing near.
But lonely
Is the track
With the Cadillac,
Deserted in the
Heat, it hosts
Only one, the
Thirst-quaked
Caballero, donning
Baseball cap and
Poncho – No –
In his dreams
In real life
He’s wearing
Jeans his
Father had
From some
Canadian,
Bootleg cut,
That was the
Fashion, so
He’s told,
Faded now,
Patched all
Over, hot
In the heat they
Itch at the groin and
Pinch at his thighs.
In the distance
A spot-billow
And the grunt
Of diesel – mule
As a truck bucks,
Rearing onto
Track’s horizon,
Will it help?
Stop, get out
Proffer aid
To a fellow,
Soldier of the
Road? Hoping
So, he gets
Out, our poncho
Dreamer, and
Waits – under
The same tree
Mentioned earlier
Orlando’s wheels
Turn, truck driving
Over track to
The Cadillac
Beached beside
That strange
Old tree he
Passes every
Day on the
Way into Havana.
Break, stop, lean
Speak, hola,
Man exchange,
Help, proffered,
Help accepted
Wheels carry
Four legs and
Arms, to Havana,
Hungry but
Calm, Cadillac
Waits for
A tug and
A push
And a glug
Of shampoo
8:30 am, Heart Attack Road
Death stopped his
Clock at 49 years, 38
Days and 54 seconds.
Enough? No sense in
Asking nonsense
Questions, his measure
Weighed no more
Nor less than 49
Years, 38 days and
54 seconds. No
Use holding
A bicycle, a
Cigarette, a
Curt phone-call,
Suspect , no murder
Here, only Life
Then Death.
Rerouted
So abruptly,
Where does he stamp-stomp now –
Swear or
Hack a laugh
And scratch
His ear to
Chase a thought?
What’s that sound
We hear on the
Stairs? Silence and the
Flaccid patter of
Other people’s feet,
Not his firm
Tread.
Who’s that voice
That Northern
Lurch? – No, not
Him, too mincing,
Not his whirr from
A tar-blacked pipe.
His last weekend,
His last of
Life, what
Passed, passed
Clear and
Flat, as if
To expose,
Not far ahead,
A fork in the road.
Off he veered,
Yet visible in
The morning glare, but
Shrinking,
Slowly, steps
Grow softer
As his edges
Fizz their last,
And crackle warmly
Into Horizon.
In memory of a man, a salesman from Nottingham, fond of sailing and his 3 children.
Being Every Day 