It Isn’t Of Course

 

It Isn’t Of Course

 

It’s best to think of life as a thickish blue line

on a map

that stretches from here to Leeds;

a stop at Leicester Forest East,

Newport Pagnell or Trowell:

It isn’t of course,

only a fool would think that because

‘what about this skin on your toes 

that’s flaking,

buttery fungus beneath the nails

minding its own business?’ she wails,

a voice like Portuguese tomato soup,

a face from never ending time loop,

all spit and French polish.

Then there’s that food 

you ate yesterday,

inching its way, 

inching its way,

‘and you probably forgot’, she says,

whilst sweeping the floor, panning for debris,

chucking pennies in wishing wells to visit Georgia,

somewhere like that 

and many do think to feel 

all that gritty snow between freezing toes

somehow it will all click into place

like a plucked snapdragon squeezed 

will kiss and tease,

and when you look back

on this and that,

it’s not where you are 

or where you’ve been,

just what you’ve left behind that’s seen.