Interstice

 Interstice

 

 

It’s like that b/w - no one told you backed with

and all these years you pondered meaning.

You pretty much receive back all that you give

not really breaking even, but, hey ho, let it go,

just tally up a few more of those working years

while you keep hearing there could be snow,

but not this year, not even close, the radio

recalls that they say the same every season,

some even place a bet - not you, not yet.

There’s not quite enough space for your knees,

always conscious they’re crushed underneath

your record decks; coasters to protect the desk

but leave coffee stained rings instead –

you’ve got eight now, some shaped like 45s,

others imprinted with those football crests

of teams supported over many festive slots –

Charlton, Villa, Wolves – you’ve got the lot

but now they pass across, build from the back,

never lump it long or feed forward attacks,

all the anticipation flatters to deceive

like dead trees that have shed dead leaves

getting between the spaces, filling the cracks,

plugging drains with dank brown fairy wrap,

stoppering what’s past, what’s yet to come,

so, raise a glass – happy new year, everyone.