Drip feed of life

 

Innocence waves at the bus rolling by.

Smiles in her eyes, as the yapping dog

of time plays at her feet

And on the corner the brick house laughs at me.

The menacing stare of glaring windows

and toothy door. The trees hide more

ghosts than the cemetery, and overgrown

allotments are always seeded

to grow new stories.

 

And in the back seat of a passing car

loneliness sits, a faint trail of where

her tears wept, before the sleeve erases

almost all evidence. And she puts on a smile,

a false grin, painted with years of self-loathing.

Mimicking a memory, seeing how it fits.

Hating the way it itches, grating. A new

costume for another day. To store

in the wardrobe of so many costume changes.

The Uber driver just talks about his day.

Oblivious to the battle raging within her head.

 

In the bar by the way, laughter and chatter,

as outside alone, sadness sits, pint in his grip,

silent. Wishing. Dreaming of a different

drip-feed of life, sips at the thought.

A different pathway in a different time.

Where his love would have sat beside,

if he had shared his heart when he

had the time. Fingers tighten around glass.

But time can be an abusive partner,

making you believe you have

longer than you ever do,

and you miss all the kisses

that could have come to you,

and memories keep floating past.

 

To the left a field of dreams

to the right

rat-run nightmares.

Victorian brick stained

with modern decorum.

Vape shop, takeaway, pharmacy.

Sainsbury's, the same humdrum,

rundown places of boredom.

The same old sights every day,

The driver sighs.

Whilst on the back seat of the bus

the poet writes,

head in the clouds,

soundtrack pounds

and his heart joins the rush.

For life is so precious,

every strain of every dream,

gifts delivered to his notebook.