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,
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
and tend the plants
the ball game and the candy bar,
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 not too bad,
I’ll call her.
Roy Smith 2010 – for the 7th traveller