GEEZER WITH A VAN:
There’s an Autumn crystal sky stretched over Essex,
rich Cyan-to-milk on the horizon. The morning
holds it’s breath waiting for the first car, cyclists
nod, slipping lycra between the fields, human flies,
plastic heads, imaginary olympians, going the distance.
I took the things you said to me days ago & laid them
as foundations, for a bad day. They churn around in the
washing machine, staining all my whites. I stoke & feed
the flame of isolation, wounding ‘little ego’ with a
fevered imagination & an old lust for resentment.
You’re probably out in the sun, enjoying Autumn’s freebee,
or maybe, alone, wondering. This desire to lash out is tired,
thorn in the paw of a wrinkled fable. It’s an old joke on
broken record, all the laughs were dark as echoes.
I boil the kettle, remembering what the tribes of Essex taught,
moving on. No worries, I know a geezer with a van.