Spindrift

 

Spindrift

 

You went out? She cried,

careful that you don’t get fried!

Nah, nah, I’m still alive –

but messages from well-wishers dried

up – no attention span,

you see? The month drags on.

Feel something wrong

as the sun wends a weary way

across the sky, waiting for the day

to breed black night

covets every minute of its flight,

setting never too soon

and disgorging the moon

from its distended womb.

You wonder why. Why it thrives,

if shops are shut, outlets die,

in blessed sham, a joyous lie

conjured by a ten percent elemental

who put mental into fundamental

and had it off with fun.

Meanwhile, a world’s gaze slipping

showing something more gripping,

stuff like Patrick Viera, John Hartson,

and trails for what’s so great

about being a SKY reporter –

try being a second daughter

of a mogul or shipping magnate,

we gaze contemptuous at the screen

at Cordelia or Hakim –

come friendly bombs

the month drags on.