Lost Tools

You ought to have had a shed, moss musty,

You would keep some rank booze there

Which we would drink from chipped cups

Rinsed in the water butt

Not clean but clean enough

Because this is my idea of being a dad

Borrowed from an old idea of yours,

An apparition out of doors,
A bonfire curling lazy late daylight skeins

Around knock-knees and varicose veins

You ought to have had a shed,

Where the tools could wait for me

And might have forced

My unskilled hands to work

At the sweat black wooden handles,

Not clean but clean enough

Those tools in their oiled sack bag could tell

Of hands that dished out lollipops

Shot unthinkingly at hotentots

And steered a wounded Hurricane back

To medals, the cold metal applause of wars

The tools are gone,

And although they’re probably in use

They don’t have a story,

Beyond this one of loss;

You had no place to put them,

No shed, musty as moss

But a garage crammed,

Not clean, but clean enough.

The Lady

Who was that tapping at the window?

Pain like bolts in her curled fingers

Arthritic yes, but betraying perhaps

A past, more delightful, yes light

Full life, lived through a domino

Display of opening doors,

And years of tipped hats and applause,

Giving her the strong back of the

Perennially loved, and eyes still

Fired to flirt even down two generations

And we flirt back, we boys, to her at least

But men to all others this side of the window
Their backs turned and already beginning to curl.

Going for a drink

Ok then let’s go,

to where the evening waits

like a mugger

to rob us of our faculties,

and yes, let’s wander

the headline making streets on purpose

we are fodder after all for stories.

And let us lurk in corner bars,

sinking a few jars,

celebrating the gutter for its reflection of the stars

and swapping tales of those same stars

and how they bounced off puddles

to take their twinkling place above these

poorly maintained roofs, locked like empty lovers

in an architectural embrace of stained ceilings,

witness to the couplings of broken men and whores

but let us never have cause

to fall too far

through the gaps in the bar,

where the drink

we sink

takes chunks and lumps of life

when it promised to restore it

because there will be time,

in time to call time,

to hear the bell tolling us into those same

bruised streets where we’ll pick up pace

and head each man to his anointed place

somewhere between the puddles

and the stars.

Detox

When you put the bottle down the day comes on dull

like the ache they say of a lost limb

but in the sandy residue poured for tired cups

you can feel warm summer still

discerning in that purple grit the vine’s renewal

and its giving up of treasure;

orbs crushed leaking life into second hand barrels

patina producing pleasure

now withheld to end a deep winter’s draft

which once warmed fallow hearts

consuming themselves, wanting more than wine

and saying no, no more this time.