Ticks

 Tick

 

Do you remember a story where –

there was a bloke, steel glasses, grey hair,

who awoke?

 

To find – and I’m not making this up –

the world’s population vanished,

and everything that irritated him was banished

to some twilight zone – he’s alone,

shuffles outside to have a look:

time enough at last to read some books.

 

So, he’s off to the library haste post haste,

eager to burrow into books and taste

whatever he might find there –

but his glasses broke.

 

I don’t remember if there was another bit

where a tick was burying in,

he checks, picks at this thing

embedded in his skin,

notes, too late, its upright sac was bloated.

 

I could write that, pick up my pen,

but it’s holiday season again -

either the sun’s shining or the rain’s falling,

no matter - here’s the unwashed come calling

in an endless stream to wash them in,

and where’s John the Baptist when you need him?

 

You’ll find yourself sitting in morning mist,

absently ripping scabs off your epidermis,

at decaying tables outside run-down cafes,

purveyors of overpriced weak coffee,

that’s neither over-hot or cold enough

to call itself iced.

 

There’s overhead flies

in orbit around your skull,

his chitchat forecast is set cloudy to dull,

and sickly salted caramel ice,

meanders without thought

in between the buttons of your shorts.

 

Do you remember a story where –

there was a bloke, grey glasses, steel hair,

who choked?

 

He’s on a train – I’m sure this is truthful –

there’s a station, it stops, nobody ever gets off.

Sees a platform cloaked in frost,

and everyday, the same thing occurs,

while the machinery of his mind whirrs,

until he is moved, one day, to check it out.

He opens the doors – as one, the passengers shout:

and - while I might have composed this last bit -

they turn over a corpse

only to find it smothered in ticks.

 

Might have, you understand,

scribbled it in my own hand -

if ever, at last, I am given time.