Poetry Blog by Celia (time)
Excuse me sir, how long
till Central Station?
Thirty. Five. Minutes.
Thirty five. Another hour
Or day springs open abyss
Before me, that is, before us
Before I can rest my hand on your shoulder
And pretend not to expect you there
Or you me.
These minutes are unlike any other
Minute I’ve known on earth
They are viscous, solid,
Friday 12th May 2017 4:41 pm
And now I must recover myself
Left, after centuries of fearful neglect
Washed up to dry on a sunless beach.
And now I must plait my hair
Dull, after nights of washing in grease
The guilty searches for lost affection.
And now I must return home,
Home, where I’ve never been
And sit a while and say sorry, I’m sorry, to me.
Wednesday 16th March 2016 3:27 pm