the love of not letting go

You can’t make promises anymore because search queries are only an enter away.
So I left and left the rest up to ricochets in the right direction,
paid in cheques and sat with discretion.
For four hours three radio plays in 4:3 ratio covered as narration.
The curtains were closed from action to station except for a slip of world to gauge duration;
the romance of running away
disappeared into transit,
into row yourself home again hands and, when I got there, I’d run out of land,
aground on the sea of all the change I had needed.

Clouds jumped from cliffs like kids from swimming pool kerbs
          and came to rest in mid-air for all of an afternoon.
I stood. Saw it all. Stared from the end of the brigg holding on because I could,
not that I should’ve: it was a new power I’d misunderstood as the love of not letting go.

Let’s commit suicide like Olympic divers would,
let’s give in to all we’ve worked towards     was a thought I did not think,
only in hindsight did this occur.

This is not pity (so put away your party hats) but a plausible clause for concern I thought I’d share,
a margined caveat note that says:
     turn it in by Monday and we’ll tell you how you’ve done
     as soon as we’ve worked out why you might've jumped.

My sister said if I ever killed myself she'd break my neck again;
ten for ten, never a foot wrong and still clearing up after I’ve gone.
Though that’s some satisfaction, ill misfortune she’d be short of ‘cos
I like signing her christmas cards and been my parents only son,
long enough still, anyway, to have done something proud of the name I state when jotting surnames first on every form,
single punctuated blots punched into separate boxes.


I pull myself back into most rooms
with that full stop, wonder why I’d waste
the privilege of lineage in
the first place, so easily it was dumb,
because we're not those sorts of sons
to waste questions with easy answers.

*

Once, on platform nine and three more days please,
I saw a woman in kite attendant
slacks, in plain clothes expertise, hoping
someone as sane as her had felt the

same as me, had some sort of history,
but she caught me looking, mimed back perfectly:
why can ceramicists get married
and not me? I’m jealous you’re not

struggling, pulling strings like most
people. I’ve seen the likes of you on
Deal or No Deal, in potter’s shirts, short
of hemlines and a clean. How do you

do it, believed to be seen?      Well,
I could ask you the same thing, lady.
Like, I know monthly payments are the
definition of affording routine,

but save a little time for yourself,
view                     this                     shit                     in                     wide                    -               screen
and surrender to your promises,
treat them with good health,

or you’ll never get anything done.


The Finish of a Jack-Knife Dive