My coffee is going cold again as I sit here, an old man in my dimly lit room,

this bubble of existence that’s become my world.

My senses reach out for signs of life, to let me know I have a pulse.

The buzz of the water pump oxygenating a sphere of water,

a life support machine for fish that swim within.

We hold a staring competition, and then they swim away,

around that same corner for the umpteenth time today.

Do fish get deja vu?

Do fish go ‘stir crazy’ swimming in the confines’ of their watery cell?

I stare at them, watching their mouths open and close,

as if waiting for a ventriloquist to put words into their mouths.

I wish I could lip read, see what they say about my box of air.

 

My coffee is going cold again as I sit here, an old man in my dimly lit room,

this bubble of existence that’s become my world.

My senses reach out for signs of life, to let me know I have a pulse.

That hooded teenager is on the floor below playing on that damn play station,

playing on some alien, car racing, beat them up or some god forsaken game.

One hundred decibels thunders though my floorboards, vibrating my shoes,

tingling my feet, sending the intrusion through my veins.

Do I stamp on the floor, to sound complaint?

Do I say something when next we meet on the stares, risk another beating?   

Hooded on the street corner they stand, making me feel like prey.

I wonder, as I cross the road to avoid eye contact, where have all the youth clubs gone, what has the local council done for them, poor sods.

 

My coffee is going cold again as I sit here, an old man in my dimly lit room,

this bubble of existence that’s become my world.

My senses reach out for signs of life, to let me know I have a pulse.

A flicker of light from the gas fire drags my site to a picture, of a beautiful woman captured by a silver frame, from a yesterday long gone.

By the bookcase I still keep your chair, I see you, but you’re not there.

Silently I weep, trying in vain to dry my eyes with a tear soaked handkerchief.

Do I end it all right now, end the pain, and rejoin my love?

Do I really want to rattle in this box of air, my coffin?

We always had lots of laughs and a nice cuddle at night time.  

She made me promise never to be alone, as she drew her last breath.

Picking up the card again, from the mantel piece, I promise her to ring the home

 

© Phil Golding 01/09