The bundle of rags
filling the doorway
of the closed-down shop
reveals human movement.
I’m aware of misery
trying to park in my life.
I resist the intrusion,
leave for anywhere else.
I should be aware
adversity detects any hint
of innate gullibility.
Unease follows me home.
It lies in the corner
with other wretchedness,
aware of its worth,
and stares me out.
I tread carefully
avoiding confrontation.
I shall learn to live with it,
explain I’m powerless..
Now it’s been acknowledged
it will grow the face
of a moral compass
pointing to guilt.
Even next door’s dog
won’t come to me now.
HAVE AND HAVE NOTS
He accepts his bonus,
equal to his annual salary,
as though he’s earned it,
ignoring the constraints of
the present financial climate.
Some of it will pay for
his wife’s cosmetic operation,
some will be earmarked for
extensions to his mansion.
Far away in another country,
he carries a thin, crying child
with sickness for a whole day
to ramshackle health post,
and there are no guarantees.
If he gets her back home
to the overcrowded shack
he’ll always be watching
for that same predatory shadow
to cross another child.
Left unsaid by the rich
is the lottery of birth
with unequal burdens.
Somewhere there’s a conscience
that raises two fingers
to the rest of the world.
COFFIN DANCER
Inside a man’s head
is a skilful footballer
minus a team;
a singer of soulful songs
without evocative words;
a poet for the world
with exhausted reasons;
a stand-up comic
who’s lost the audiences;
a great lover wondering
where the charm went;
a racing driver
running out of nerve,
a leader of men
misplacing the rules;
a would-be millionaire
running out of decisions.
What really hurts is
he’s the last man standing,
a coffin dancer
for all the men
he might have been.
SILENT COMMUNICATION
The night was so quiet
carrying our unshed tears
and the walls squeezed silence
tight against my ears,
sounding like a warning
on unintentional hurt.
You lay alongside me
hypnotizing the ceiling
into finding a solution,
not knowing yourself,
wondering if you understood
the root of our differences.
I wanted a crutch
of explanatory words
to give stupidity a face
we could both recognize,
maybe even understand,
to hold you like an answer.
The night was so quiet
that it seemed to me
I could hear my own thoughts,
loud enough to be interpreted.
Suddenly you turned to me
and said “Yes”.
Gordon Scapens - is widely published over many years in numerous magazines, journals, anthologies and competitions, most recently First Prize in the Brian Nisbet poetry award. He lives in Preston in the United Kingdom.
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