Selective Communication

Elsewhere
December 18, 2018
Country Music in the MRI Machine
December 18, 2018

Selective Communication

If you call, you’ll get my machine.

If I’m not in the bath soaking aches,

matching wits with a wily crossword compiler

or on the loo revising wasted days,

the lightning speed of the past –

or outside rejoicing at distant snow on summits,

walking a light-bathed terrain of eucalyptus scent,

a memory trail of children grown, dogs long dead;

I might pick up,

but don’t bother calling if you don’t care for me.

You could interrupt me imagining another lifetime,

a romantic, almost unbearable waste of hours.

I remain busy in my own fashion,

try to avoid wretchedness where love went awry,

heartache from self-inflicted wounds, unhealed,

freezing me always on the brink of nothing much.

I keep to myself, but not because I’m rude.

I also keep secrets – particularly my own,

content to read words polished to a shine.

Also at ease, to a degree, with my own mind;

not believing I’m mad, but uncertain,

bound by idiosyncratic rituals making little sense.

If no light glows, please don’t disturb hard-won sleep,

dreams’ surprising scenarios.

Whatever you want, it can probably wait.

If I wake, I’ll consider the new day a bonus.

I should have died a thousand times.

I’ll fumble switches: kettle, computer, rusted brain.

OK, I’ll think, bring on what’s left.