Some Poems. Read now.

That house.

In the garden of that house

The pegs no longer hold

the washing to the line

Outside that house

The husband’s BMW

Is only there

from time to time

From that house

We hear screams

Of unimaginable scorn

In that house

The welcome mat

In the hallway

Is looking rather worn

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Saturday morning bath at your place.

you have a bath in your kitchen

but it’s pegwell bay not paris

I sit at the table and type

but it’s more Barstowe than Byron

The water doesn’t refract your

spine into a broken straw

and my silence from the keyboard

does not flinch at all

you tell me that you now think

I cottoned on quite fast for a man

to your attention seeking ways

nothing you’ve said is strange so

we take a plunge and coldly spar

the washing up shall we have kids

whether our sex life skids along

I push you too hard to study

and not hard enough for song

the argument takes an hour

and is full of sad concessions

but I warm the towels on coal

and wrap to mend your bones

when you emerge into the weekend

purged exfoliated and burned

waxed smooth of burrs and guilt

I flick my ash into the vacant bath

and the flakes of oxidised paper

sink so slowly like the tumbling

of an argument that is talking 

in its sleep

now.

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