Four on Five

A collection of four poems on five years.

---

On the Corner

It was a hot Summer night

and She was standing on the corner,

alone.

Her friend chatted away at Her

aimlessly filling the thick air with gossip

and pleasantries and teendom as I watched,

but only Her; soft features sown

with electronic shadows, joyous

eyes dancing with the streetlights

above, Her unbalanced footing as

She swayed back and–

I quickly look away when She glances at me and

the image is gone,

already preserving

like stills in amber until I hear Her infectious laugh and I look again.

Now we are inside.

There are more people but we

are still alone,

sitting in a restaurant made

for drunks and those getting drunk.

I wanted to speak to Her,

I wanted Her to want to speak to me,

while my foot tapped to the rhythm

of the distantly closing conversations around us.

I don’t remember what we said,

how it started,

my curiosity aching inside my chest

at this new and dangerous creature before me;

like a wild deer peeking through the bushes

unsure whether it is looking at foe or friend,

but either way it must know.

The night continued and turned into

more conversations, more drinks,

more months, more memories;

but only ever us.

“Are you going tonight?”

I don’t think so.

“Neither am I,”

I would say in quick response,

not wanting to waste another evening

without Her.

I’m busy tonight I would

tell others as I rode the bus

to Her,

questions bubbling for hours

of star gazing in the grass and

friendly romantics rarely uttered.

I would sit straight on the sticky busses,

telling youthful lies to impress Her,

albums I loved but hadn’t listened to

and politicians that outraged me but had never heard of.

My heart rattled like a caged bird

with a desperate tempo,

squawking idyllic sensibilities

in case one of us could hear it, but

my ears were already deafened by

the wonder She carried with her,

the unrelenting barrage of

our platonic infatuations.

And then,

it is Autumn and

I am standing alone on a corner

waiting for Her,

for Her smile, Her stormy

and aloof eyes hiding

Her lone wit that always simmered beneath.

She takes my hand and we walk

towards the first corner,

our corner where we met

and we are alone again.

I can smell hints of Her perfume

as the cold breeze steals it away from me;

I can hear hollow chatter from every angle

as it overpowers Her fragile voice;

but all I see is Her.

We whisper naively to each other

with feigned ignorance,

knowing full well what happens next.

When we kiss nothing changes.

We are still friends, the world is intact

and our feet still firm on the

damp dirty pavement.

We look at each other and

giggle, the evaporating tension steaming the droplets

off the rusted railing behind Her.

It felt as natural as taking a step,

as innate as a lungful of air or a single blink.

It felt like the first sip of a snowed-in

hot chocolate, or like the shift between

Winter and Spring.

It felt like returning home only We

had never been there before.

It was new and exciting but

as instinctive as the setting sun and

the swaying of trees.

I look at Her, trembling with

new-born awe,

and We are alone,

together.

---

The Clouds

The brooding clouds float

over the still sleeping city,

like woollen blankets

pulsing with electric pity.

The people wake slow

as kettle’s toll the morning bell,

and engine’s rumble

as spouses say routine farewells.

But the clouds hang dark

above the hectic cityscape,

every bee buzzing

with each choice they forget to make.

For not only did

they bring their pitter-patter song

but the unwelcome

gloom, as if present all lifelong.

Resented, dreaded,

the deafeningly silent clouds

passed through, unwanted;

spreading their sadness to the crowds.

But the grey cushions

could not stop their tears any quicker

than a drained mother

mending siblings in a bicker.

They did not know how

to stop their sky-shattering bouts,

their nature-born need

for wailing tears, thunderous shouts.

They would look at the

sure-footed creatures restlessly,

at their convinced lives,

at their poised trust in destiny.

Clouds have no choices,

no free will to ruin nor to please,

only what is and isn’t,

their bleak air, sad song, and whipped breeze.

Their thoughts spark into

a million million anxious bolts,

sorrowed by their life;

the habitual role of their faults.

Then the clouds passed far

beyond the concrete forest and

into one of wood,

where all rejoiced in

the gift of water, a beauty

just clouds understood.

---

Rainy Day

The streets buckle under the weight

of the sky, pavement banks, downhill floods,

water hustling into the swamped harbour below.

I follow the currents in soaked Converse

and a dark, wind-chewed umbrella

tearing out of my shivered grip.

The rain washes out the sewers

and careless bin bags – food scraps,

plastic forks and bottles and bags,

cigarette butts and dirty nappies –

I watch it all swim by

under concrete tower canopies,

the exhaust fumes of human life.

The floor is wet – everything is –

heavy hair flailing, lip quivering,

heart throbbing thrilled frantic,

round the corner and she

stands under a balcony,

innocent, scared, holy alone

and drenched to bone.

She has no umbrella,

huddling, ambling, squeezing,

we make it back to mine,

scrambling with tangled keys, jittered hands,

droplets up the stairs left

by soaked socks and heavy gaits.

She trembles next to me, fingers

caught in congealed shoelaces, breathless.

We laugh at our safe travels,

the timbre catching me thicker

than any storm, any Earthly monsoon.

Windows rattle with wind and

water but I hear her shallow breath,

ears straining to record every exhale

while she wears my old shorts, baggy shirt.

An unheard, unseen, unwanted

show plays somewhere behind her,

hands a cliché distance apart:

touching-not-touching.

I want to hold them, warm

them with little gifts, to speak

of my dreams and wishes and

tell secret stories made for

empty rooms and imaginary friends.

Her legs cross, a knee rests on

mine – dusk creeps through the static sky –

I feel her warmth, her light laugh

tapping love letters in morse.

I love you too, I tap back, to

no response.

I love you, your friendship,

your joy, your care and nature.

I love the jokes I don’t get,

the awkward pauses and shy poses,

your perfume and unbought roses,

I love how my old clothes fit you,

your sensitive eyes, fresh morning dew.

Credits roll too soon while we

whisper young goodbyes, her baggy

outfit perfectly mismatched,

radiant against the unweakened weather.

We hug in an infinite second,

scared to let go, afraid to hold on.

Don’t go, please, I love you

and it’s still raining outside so just

stay for a little longer, I love you,

here, take my umbrella, be careful

and call me when you get home

because I love you, you can keep

the clothes, yes it was fun,

I love you.

And I can’t/won’t/want to tell you,

I don’t know if you love me

but I love you.

---

The Stray Cat

The stray brown-black striped cat streaked through night streets,

through jar windows, preying its routine midnight beats.

It finds not a morsel, no food, no drink,

till the vacant rumble is gone; not a wink.

Pride cannot feed famine, nor raise the dead,

so it skulks to the garden, where cats are fed.

E’ery bowl is empty, no scraps left behind,

all the other cats here early, fed and dined.

Not sure of why, it and they could ne’er bond,

something in its walk, the way it would respond.

Maybe if it sleeps, dreams will fill its soul,

the sandman never comes, elsewhere on patrol.

Under a new car in its favourite spot,

the stray cat wide-eye watches, food un-forgot.

A girl whispers soft, cooing, voice so sweet,

the cat walks hungry, deathly, poised for retreat.

It follows past the church, by the blue door,

up the steep hill it stumbles, dead, on the floor.

The cat wakes bleary in his warm straw cot,

how long ago was that? he remembers not.

He hears the girl call his name, her voice home,

her house his new kingdom, the fridge his tall throne.

She feeds him every day, flavours to blend,

but what he loves most is his newfound best-friend.