Interstice

 Interstice

 

 

Like seeing b/w - no one told you backed with

and all these years spent pondering meaning.

You're pretty much back with 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 known to 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 that 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 that anticipation only flatters to deceive

like undead trees have shed dead leaves

getting between the spaces, filling the cracks,

plugging drains with a dank brown fairy wrap.

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

raising toasts of happy new year, everyone.