Passage

 

Passage

 

It was on a train

coming back from football,

Dobson forgets the game:

the Addicks or maybe Wolves

howling - shredding night skies

with wants, needs, compulsions.

 

In the aisle, he’s standing,

staring in revulsion,

barring passage with bullets for eyes

as if to say, no right of way.

 

But Dobson doesn’t want to play

having already seen a game,

too many, in fact – they end the same.

Doesn’t want to throw a punch,

not today, anyway,

but wonders what this one has to say.

 

He sets tinned beer on the table,

backs down, sees the frown

that crossed his face

like he’s marked absent in the register.

 

This antagonist speaks,

slight, trembling; he reaches

for those words he must’ve rehearsed

or scripted over the years.

 

A voice like the shaking train

and the cans rattle like snakes.

You barred my way so many times,

so now at last, I’m barring yours,

she’s mine – I took her.

 

So it goes. No jab in the chest,

just a quivering breath -

he’s Lene Lovich’s Lucky Number

all falsetto and fear.

 

Ah, it must be her: Rachel.

They’d been players together

trod boards, ridden stages,

recited lines, flicked pages.

And once or twice

she’d held him

sticky in her hands,

wiping the mess from her belly

with clean, white tissues.

 

Later: something dark and self-harm,

approximately raised black alarms,

whipped storms, swapped out calm

for all the drama you could watch.

 

Now he’s the lookout

and a boy stands on a burning deck.

It can’t endure, it falls apart,

and this man having played his part

stands aside:

leaving Dobson to finish his ride.