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.