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.