Friday, 30 August 2013

123

A poem


The day’s numbers constitute material
Punched codes, bland, ethereal
Let speech shatter from house to house
Like a worn out drum 
We fight and push.
Sometimes for air
But life attempts to add measurements
To which some cry
And face a penalty
They never meet.
The phone shrills on its jawbone
Somewhere in the street
the kettle spits on the gas
And I wonder
Why the name of home
Has been prescribed to this.
I watch the windows mist
With tears, with laughter
I wonder after
If it was all worth it
Now another branch of the family tree
Lies exhausted.
Any reaching out is  limited
Sometimes, at night
I lie myself, wasted
And feel the tears on my cheek

And my hand on my side.