Two thumb toes curled, eight subalterns squished
retreat in shoes too tight, rules too rigid.
Brain we mangle, stunt all words
to grape in odd clusters ’round harboured thoughts.
Don’t frighten the horses!
Heart stripped to stumps and cords,
lumpen mass, still beating,
confined to a love no longer felt,
a marriage of minds no longer true.
They keep me here,
those lips puckered up for good night kisses,
the tooth fairy duties,
odd chuckle in the night.
They keep me sane,
those questions about fairness, children who have
nothing, polar bears drowning,
how drains and bridges work.
They wash away anger
with silly puns and toilet jokes,
songs half-remembered,
the la-la shrieked out loud.
They ground me.
Clip my wings.
Imprison me with love.
Know not what they do.
Nor ever will.
I swear.
Soft pad-pad of measured pace,
she saunters up the plank – three, four –
meanders down the slope – five, six –
a pause, a whiff of one’s Siberian neighbour through the fence,
then around the corner on shaggy feet
her relentless pursuit of majesty recommences.
He rests on the hilltop, meanwhile,
so quiet, so strong,
his gaze languorous mid-distance,
surveying his shrunken kingdom.
At 3 precisely the doors lift.
Each enters their separate tomb,
devoid of life or decoration,
where an unhunted, unchosen lump of dead meat awaits.
No need to pounce or devour,
They nuzzle delicately with perfect table manners,
yet denied the pleasure of companionship,
except for the dozens of pairs of eyes
and flashbulb concert outside.
Pictures courtesy of my son.
