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Stylus & Heart

Jacqueline walked out and broke my vibe, then slipped away

heavy with coats and silver coins. She

stripped berries from thorny briars in frozen fields,

and with bruised knuckles patched her worn shawl.

Now old needles drag with a backdrop of sputtering

grease and tea, and the tiny glass horse we bought at the

shop, has tilted sideways then gone cracked. I have

placed a heavy coin on its cracked base for counterweight.

Our room has re-settled itself to colder air, it

only speaks to me now, and the bedroom shelves

keep a fortress of Ibuprofen in massive foil sheets,

which I take for blankets.

Late evenings I wander to the square, and lean against a driver's

shelter by the station, watching the crowd of commuters

dissolve into trains. Heavy iron gates swing to lock

out stray dogs and beggars,with a closing ritual

of slamming heavy doors on stone.

My shadow does battle with my frame, creating shapes of

bleak despair, and I hold woolen scarves full of her forgotten

perfume to lean against for safety. While quiet

passersby glance from damp lampposts at sudden

collapses like Edwardian photographs.

With no hope I can stage a tournament of eccentricities,

and beat a copper drum, to summon allies in black boots

from concrete tunnels and forgotten basements. We'll all

toss our dreams at the sparks of a dying blaze in a brazier,

I mean, I wouldn't want to break tradition.

.