Integrity (2)
When I retire, I’ll look for somewhere
with fresh running water, clean air
put my feet up, play guitar
in some LoFi jobbing pub band
where the sound of two hands
clapping won’t cover up mistakes
amateurs like us are bound to make.
Write grungy poetry such as this,
expect to be kissed by the mistress,
seek out all my ex-lovers,
offer them flowers and forgiveness.
Like a Skyline Pigeon, be set free,
tossed up, seeking irresponsibility,
the taste of pillow slips, flossed sheets,
and balling my head into my feet.
But, as for the here, as for the now,
you sought me out, trapped me somehow,
tottered in here demanding answers,
scrolling through your phone -
a foreknowledge of knowing glances,
what happens when you take your chances,
swop out truth for something rancid.
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