Financial schism (too be read between a bank and a cathedral)

Behind my chair unfolds a world that cameras never capture

and on the sill,

a purple sprouting flower,


I mark the time with various lunches and mathematics

that bring on digestive rumbles;

the chest burns, but

mincemeat tarts and pink ice cream scoops

crown the pudding


Assign the percentile,

wrestle with the sheet and think of better times.

When the lady watched me swimming

and I took her home to parlour

and there still

we live, but crumbling slightly.

Her doll hands buttered,

lest they fade,

hold on.

She asks when and soon

a different world

I like, but worry mostly

to rise a phoenix, refreshed anew

or end quite sudden.

And in the time between this and that we only want the best,

in breaks and gentler days, we live

in bars

and tend the plants

the ball game and the candy bar,

on beaches,


stars and cloud alike,

in happy conversation.

But it can never wait so long

why live it like tomorrow,

endorsed by men who sell it dear

and crown us in our sorrow.

We never went on rocket ships

or fought the bear in winter,

and yet

we live

and not too bad,

not special

or sad

I’ll call her.

Roy Smith 2010 – for the 7th traveller



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