Moving On


I’d like to say a few things about the soul
in man, as found on certain streets I’ve walked.

I’d like to confirm my commitment to
the ingress of experience, the egress of
doubt; state that the greatest fear we have is,
once asleep, asleep becomes the solid state.

I’d like to affirm my arms will never reach
across those gulfs I’ve always failed to negotiate,
because my reach is no more than a shadow that
fades just short of racing imagination.

I’d like to make an omelet for breakfast, do
the dishes, straighten the bed, repair the crack
which journeys, unfettered between the bathtub
and the tiles. I’d like to paint the living-room.

All that will mean much more when we’re
prepared to sell this house, than will a poem
taped to the fridge door, bordered by screaming
smiley faces, a ketchup stain and signed,

Don’t forget the mouthwash.