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
My heart melts while my brain melts-down.
The crossing is treacherous, fraught with hurt, heart-ache, frustration
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.