Thaw

 

Thaw

 

Dobson’s less inclined to reflect on drought,

as another year’s showing him out

by the back door, the bedroom window.

He’s shinning down the thinning drainpipe,

well, not so slender, nor so slight,

as he was once want to be, fleshy faced,

preparing, in his head, the watertight case

for the defence, as he’s seen vaulting fences

by Reggie or Uncle Jimmy. Be thankful, rest.

Was there an Elizabeth? There was a Linda,

that much is certain, Dobson skipped lectures

for her restless afternoons in a single bed,

necking too much of that cheap bottled Pils

beforehand, not as forgiving as you’d hope,

always panicking and couldn’t cope

that she might have copped for one;

constantly nagging him for protection.

Too many Fionas: if Dobson closes his eyes,

counts to three, my how the time flies

as they shot that poison arrow to his heart:

Who was it who said that there’s no art?

He says thanks, means it - brings them back

on those nights when sleep don’t come,

reminds them you must give and take some.

In his head, memories of living and the dead,

who flash upon the mind and in the bed,

like fiction, but fleshed out of sound mind.

What comes around goes around,

which is why pass the parcel still thrills you,

you never know which undone wrap will reveal

a heart willing to give or willing to steal.

Dobson doesn’t kiss and tell

those tales of husbands not giving enough

of what makes her happy; something tough,

but understandable, being a man he knows

that some must go where they must go,

follow where the new year’s winds will blow,

be ever grateful that the river still flows,

that coming summers will thaw the snow.