Monday, September 2, 2013


When it’s a feeling.
Of being smuggled into yourself,
for a temporary ( sorry) eternity.
Looking for bits of bits, yourself,
rummaging with papers on the train,
having exhausted any chance
to sense poetry in being blown in the wind,
but having exhausted maybe even exhaustion
and, what after? Going on rummaging
with the badly folded papers of yourself
on the train, while it clanks to heaven
whose door was closed time out of mind,
while you have been frowning, smiling too,
fumbling through lives, scrutinizing
illegal corners popping up in the famine,
the subtle famine of feelings, of being really here,
a few papers of yours fumbled on among chores,
and air blown from chinks by your elbow
on the swarming away-countenance of the train window,
in your disentangled sameness ( sorry) of days,
an eternal mobile vibrating, past-caring in the pocket,
the dream of a touch-screen flashing, forlorn,
in the business of silence,
in the queue from absence to absence.
Having lost all ghosts. You,
just unasked, undue.
So simply, so normally uncared-for.
On the many roads.


A Cuban In London said...

Your poem calls to a world that exists within ourselves and to which only we have access (occasionally we allow visitors in, though! :-D). I quite liked the intimate nature of it.

Greetings from London.

Dave King said...

I go along with our Cuban friend. I think he has it exactly right.