Serial

 Serial

 

‘You miss the ones who understood,’

the doctor leaned over and said:

‘When you were young, did you think

to bury your emotions and leave them

for dead?’

 

He replied, ‘I didn’t think. I was told

often enough. You didn’t think, boy,

what didn’t you do? And it was cold,

in that room, colouring purple bits.

When you do think, you think black,

you think leaving, never going back,

but it’s always too soon. Time crawls,

only later does it gather pace, falls

and when you about to reach the brink,

you’re left with time enough to think.

 

How they saw through childish ploys,

easily exposed, tore teeth in them

until, older, and only gums remain.

For every kettle switched, water rains

tea stains, boiling water burnt throats

inside, something indelibly changed,

left its imprints on veiled tissues.

Angers boiled, cooled, formed crusts,

I think it’s something to do with trust,

isn’t it? Yes, that must be it.’

 

The doctor smiled; a familiar story

because nothing original is left,

he’s heard it all before, deep breath,

you know? ‘I can see where you get it,

put it behind you, forget it.’

 

‘It’s all gone, but here’s a knock on,

we’ve sung songs, duets, some do

but most don’t stay long, move along,

take a piece, leave a piece, wronged.

Or maybe you had to up and leave,

no fault of your own, you had to seize

day’s opportunities coming your way,

nothing good will come if you stay.

Some died, some have died, some dying,

they lay with you and then lying

as they leave, go on living and grieve.

But here’s the point, explain it please,

why so many dominos in the box?

Lined up to knock down shoulders,

still falling as we keep getting older

to form forward lines of black spot paths;

way leads onto way leads onto aftermath

that is too well known and fashioned.

If you make a pact to box up passion

there’s logic here, immunity from harm,

why still take the field fully armed?’

 

No doctor looks back, blank and cold,

for the credits have already rolled.