Home Town

The evening fog
glows headlight rushing white
in serene yellow streetlight.

Ice forms.

The town,
yet knowing of traffic,
does not hear a between-lorry silence
fill, like the sound-attack of a gong,

with the engine down of a slowing car,
turning, sloping, stopping
at the ordinary motel.

A cat
that doesn't care,
cosies in a window of homely light,
watching the movement.

No dog barks
its unnecessary warning.

Even the wind is still.

A man walks to the motel door.

Thin,
thirty or forty,
straight black hair,
a tidy working suit,
a familiar coat,

the stride of tired confidence,
the caution of strange surroundings.

Inside this mock-welcoming place,
he shares mock jokes,
and makes mock laughter,
and buys his night's
mock home.

He walks austere white corridors
and hard grey carpet
and retreats beyond
a mock-locked door.

He can't relax;
he can't watch those television programmes
so familiar elsewhere,

so routine decides to
wash and bath,
dry and shave,
brush and comb,
and sleep an early night
and dream.

Its great to have a coo and gurgle now
and then; although thank God that I can give
'em back to mum should they scream and howl,
or stink and do what babies do. To live
a life of dreadful luck from careless thrill,
nine months of getting fat and growing fright
of things gone wrong, then hospital who fill
you up with drugs and that's if things go right.
I wouldn't have the chance of looking good
for months, and there's the bites and nipple strife,
a screaming stinking shrivelled rag that could
not do the simplest thing, and grief for life.
A soul that's caged, there's no way that's for me,
I don't want such responsibility.

Awoken by the morning light,
"coffee,
where's coffee?

Oh God,
instant sawdust",
and long life thumb-pot milk
as sour as memories.

Fog,
the weatherman gloats
to stop the country's rush,
and ice, he adds:
a threat.

Unexpectedly staying,
and its too early for kitchen staff,
he wanders, opening doors,
and finds reflections
in the dance hall

His catching eyes attract as fire in hearth,
alighting on myself a burning lust;
the pub, the people, places, all of Earth,
vanish. I smile. He smiles. My eyes, in trust,
down-turning, blur. I know his psyché hums,
his eyes are bright with life itself. This dare
I'll take, and him as well: he walks, he comes
to me. And I, I wait for him; to where
we meet and find that private space. His hand,
I shall entice to want, a need to touch,
adore my female style. We talk a grand
unworded stream of wish. In need, as much
in guile, I flaunt and dance my female curves,
and taunt myself as all his life deserves.

After a breakfast
which illustrated
even coffee can be fried,

he walks and finds
architectural finesse subjugated
by I'm here me-too shout-out signs,
by redbrick and rotting window frames,
by the rude commercialism of the crude.

Yet the town's nature survives
above the glowing words of merchant promise
in patterned brick, and chimney stacks.

Less crass is a low line bungalow,
an architecture built to say
"honest, its going to be alright",
the doomed assurances of a doctor's surgery.

The doctor said my body's going wild,
the safest thing to do is to abort -
if I did that, I could not have a child
again. He told me this is what I ought
to do, I told him places he could go;
I want to take the chance, I want to run
to term - its a risky thing, I know,
it ought to be alright, though never fun.
He'll keep an eye on me. I want to give
our child a chance, I'd feel so guilty not
to try, at least - we've got to help it live.
Oh, hold me, love, I'm scared. If that's my lot
and she survives, you'll keep her in good health,
I know, for me, you're bring her up yourself.

Newspaper scanned, forgotten,
magazine thumbed and found too shallow,
crossword incomplete,
he drives.

And in complete control
breaks hard
as a young child
who's learnt the how,
but not yet the where,
of running,
collides across the road
to be snared by her cold-sweating father.

A shunt from behind.
For a moment, shock confuses,

until an idiot thunders out
of his freshly reconfigured
ego-music lout-mobile,
abuse exploding, anger-faced,
arms streaming mania.

His cars is damaged,
that's all he can see.
Driving was so fast, so sweet,
it can't be the his fault,
oh no,
he's too good a driver.

A tantrum-smothering policewoman approaches,
a cat relishing the gift of meat,
and shoulder clamps the fool to silence,
and tells the deaths that would have been done
had bumped not crashed bumper.

Shocked at the sight of the father,
at the face shared with the child
and the woman dreamt,

relief invades
like a tide of hot water
washing the soul.

Leaving, shaken, safe,
into the fog,
into the hills,
unseen, to return.

Only birds hear
the sound of the driven
finger-snap mute.