singing the blues

forecast
there are days without poetry—
when each syllable you utter
falls flat

in the morning
grey light came through the window
heavy-footed and sullen
resenting its task
i am not your butler i am not your secretary i am not i am not i am not i am not—
and because no one listened
it took satisfaction instead
from making your eyes smart with pain

later in the day you
say something to someone
they look at you oddly
you realise your comment
was displaced out-of-place fitting-for-no-place
a homeless sentence looking
for a place of its own
you say to yourself
it’s the grey light’s fault

meanwhile
the volatile sky does
nothing for anybody
it takes care of itself—
hires employees by the dozen
has them doing
jack-shit all day
light technicians sunlight sponsors
workers of the third division—
the good weather division
the keep-mankind-smiling division
the zeus-is-peanuts-in-comparison
and who-would’ve-thought
a-sunny-day-could-save-me division

the division that now
takes tea breaks all afternoon
doesn’t show up till twelve
—there’s nothing to do—
is, slowly,
turning beige with boredom
waiting for the superior to
make up his mind—

but the volatile sky
is an unpredictable boss
you never know—
what to expect
chances are—
it won’t be good so
count your blessings—
while you can

thank god you’re not—
a patch of blue
thank god you’re not—
a goddamn sunbeam
thank god you can—
afford to be unemployed
because they—

they come into the office cowering
they come into the office broken
they’ll be made redundant
any day now

there are days that hang starkly
swaying from the calendar
like the last leaves on
an otherwise barren tree.
lacking poetry,
they lose all shape and
leave you,
like the fair weather,
wilted and wasted—
waiting to be dismissed.

night train
It’s evening on the train:

the tracks creak, complaining from the strain of
carrying people from
here to there

“time to sleep,” they say –

but the passengers keep coming on and
getting off
the end of the journey never in sight

not this stop – not the next

“enough enough enough,” whines the train, “bloody bloody enough”

angry at the one who sleeps, mouth half-open
head back
against the damp dirty seat –

angry at the one who plays with her hair,
placidly reading a newspaper by now a day old –

angry at the one who smells of piss
and shows no sign of leaving –

angry because for a train
movement ceases only momentarily

angry —irrationally, jealously, angry—
at the one who will alight at the next stop.