It doesn’t really matter if I don’t like these things.
That was my release, my relief, my raffish
take on it all, on the day’s doffed toffee-nose.
There you go, you say. Words, eh? Always on the sniff
for an implication. Well, I resign, re sign,
and refuse to rescue any of it. And the sea
gives me that look a sailor gets when he forgets
to wear whale-skin, seal-skin, a bit of otter.
And I know I’m done for.
                                             ‘Nobody ever gets out alive.’
or,  ‘at five,’ as my boss might say. And gives me his look.
And I can’t refuse his kind implications, how he values
me and my company, wants me with him. Bless.
I can’t resign, but maybe re-design, or re-negotiate,
the parameters of our especial profligate relationship.
Should I tangle tongues, both forked and knived - not spooned, though -
and set table for a special dinner, those just deserts?
But can never remember which fork’s for what. And that spoon….

And the ferry slithers out, and the last flight lowps hame,
and the road chokes with red lights, shifting slowly
around the mountain. I wonder what I did to upset
the day. Did I forget to say that special something in her coral
morning ear that’d fit the lock, smooth-turn the key,
and spring hinges to a more favourable day
in the infinite possibilities, she nurses in her night-womb?
Well, if it’s me here, then me there will be having a ball;
and maybe tomorrow we can meet up, and laugh about it all.