Pinch Point

 

Pinch Point

 

Last night I missed the plane

but kept forgetting the memory

until with a jerk, I remembered again –

all a bit Bee Gees, you’ll agree:

 

‘Gotta Get a Message to You’

north by northwest of staying alive

somewhere between half past five

and other random stations

existing between this and that nation

where you and me reside.

 

There was no cradle, no receiver,

no coiled cord, no dial, no whir, no clicks –

as though such things did not exist;

they’d never deliberately missed

out Q and Z, and the plane had not taxied,

 

Was there still time to call,

ask for a refund, beg for a delay?

I could get to Heathrow within a day,

if only someone somewhere would listen -

it was never planned, something missing,

how I could explain to you

this absence – that in truth, I was an alien

in a world where they dispense a splash,

place absorbent tissue in a glass

and the drink replenished, reappears.

 

For beer it tastes overwarm, sickly,

and no matter how quickly

you drain it to the bottom – it fills again.

 

There’s a crush at the bar; closes at 10

disgorges drinkers onto the street,

disconsolate; treading on my feet

as if eager to trip up the careless pedestrian,

single them out, teach them a lesson

and you are so far away.

 

Cometh the hero, cometh the day -

the pinch point is approaching,

negligent of feeling, it cares less

about you or me, intends on leaving mess

behind – they’d beg me to be preacher:

‘We’re but as good as our worst teacher.’