Thursday, 16 June 2011

The Weather For It

Thursday 16th June 2011, A. Palmer


With the sun begging the curtains be
undrawn to mother red wine eyes,
I had stirred earlier than usual
so I even ate breakfast that day.

The headlines were jovial,
I finally replied to that text message,
and the starlings had not spooked when I
hurled my last round of toast and honey to them.

Later, whilst Charles Mingus captured
Antibes all over again upstairs,
I had strolled through cherry blossom litter
en route to pleasant time-killing, and had stood

barely thirty yards away when it happened.
The brakes shrieked with the 1960 crowd
and the burning rubber was the sole thing
to have pierced my sense of smell since

my rare cup of coffee for the hangover.
A beautiful day to go, he had died
before I could process what I was witnessing,
before the hubcap had pulled up outside Mrs Bannister’s.


Tuesday, 14 June 2011

Silver

Tuesday 14th June 2011, A. Palmer



I studied you, silent sage,-
out of the corner of an eye,
as I perched on that day’s flower
like only an eight-year-old can,
whilst a hill of crumpled drawings
I’d overshot the lines in sprouted
like a stem in fast-forward nearby.
I observed impressed how your brow
rooted and raked for the solution,
the lines like spades, digging
and tossing the problems
over for clues.
Occasionally, your pen
would rest between your reticent lips
like a fork emflowerbedded for a tea break.
Then,
just before you left for a locum,
your wilted fingers would 
plough your morning thorns,
dusting the soil from the answer, and you
would unearth the nine-letter word with nominal fuss.
That day, it was “grandsire”.



Monday, 13 June 2011

Slipping Down the Learning Curve

Monday 13th June 2011, A. Palmer




Yesterday’s conversation,
or interview given my clammy jaw,
was lovely. At least for me.
For you, in my imagination,
it was, at best, sore-
invitation for impromptu soliloquy-,
as any exchange I have fares well
until I open my mouth.
The whole time, you had some chap
mortaring food order shells
from an age two years south
that you let skip over your serving cap.
The whole time, I had cries
from my stomach to the tune of “alien life!”,
whilst the chips wrestled butterflies for room.
I was lost in your Saturday eyes,
and the realisation I’d met my wife.
So before your manager’s detonation loomed
a fourth time, with dry lips
I popped the question:
“Will you tell me where the bathroom is, Claire?”
Rid of my cowardice and chips,
but not the butterflies, the test run
was aborted and I left without looking, knocking over a chair.