30 Days: Day thirteen.


Day thirteen…unlucky for some! This one does not come from a notebook. I wrote it just now, in order to get something out of my heart and onto the page.

It is a kind of prayer.


He stands on his side of the street,

drinking himself into an early grave.

I give a wave, am rewarded with a

beautiful smile.

My heart melts while my brain melts-down.

The crossing is treacherous, fraught with hurt, heart-ache, frustration

and demons.

His and mine.

Do I call out a warning across the road?

Look out! He’s behiiiiiiiind you!

I wish it were a pantomime.

I could don my tights, and prance over to him.

But this is Brecht. Bleak, expressionistic,

with no fourth wall to encase the pain.

Do I stay on my side, and sweep up my own mess?

Avert my eyes from his? Pretend I can’t see him?

Yet I still hear him, above the traffic’s roar.

A sweet, syncopated melody on the piano.

The clink of glass as he pours another.

Then I realise.

It is not my decision.

I must continue to do the next right thing.

Hand this over.

And one day he might put the glass down,

and cross over to me.

Or not.




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