Four Red Years

1996
Travelling, I met your man
being pumped full of drugs,
and paid. This, he told me,
as he ate an apple, exuding
health, or its red-faced cousin
at least. The punchline
sat by his side, licking
its lips.

1986
Always a child in a room
full of adults, I blushed
when addressed through dialogue
or gesture. Red-faced
at the dining table, I studied
its white tablecloth
as a map displaying
my future, or their past.

1982
Uncle Tom: So which
do you prefer – the country
or the city? Me: The city.
(…while a bevy of larks flew
by, circling, mocking. Red-faced
with youth, I stood in the garden
under a bluer sky, shaded,
free. Uncle Tom carried on
digging.)

Four Red Years

2018
Frozen bread for the birds
sits in the grass by the tram
stop, while we, the commuters,
are red-faced and stiffened,
fighting the cold breeze
as contorted shapes;
fighting with goodwill and bad
posture. We stand,
and we are waiting.