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Simone Mansell Broome poems
One day, a pack of cards, a box of games,
the kind brought out on long drives, holidays
when the rain failed to stop… you remember
solitaire and patience. Then, yesterday,
Mars bars, a copy of the Guardian…
today you clutch a bag – a pack of socks,
another – assorted boxer shorts. Speak
fast to plug the gaps; offer to take washing,
to make his bed. He shrugs refusal. No,
he doesn’t want your gifts, to talk, to touch.
This one-way trade of visiting, of bringing
things, of mindless noise, is marking time
for the crumpled man sat on single bed
who’s forgotten how to chat, who avoids
your eyes, is angry, motions you to go.
If I tried to give you up, it would be like
buying a train ticket from Aberystwyth
to Hastings, on a Sunday or a Bank Holiday –
a reduced service, works on the line…
essential maintenance;
and I’d expected five changes, steeled myself for
Shrewsbury, Wolverhampton, Reading, Gatwick
and Brighton,
had psyched myself to tick them off, one by one,
but found cancellations,
my progress halted, my plans thwarted,
my route re-arranged on a chalked easel
with quirky spellings… inaudible apologies…
and instead of three-down-two-to-go,
time for a coffee, a quick last sidinged pass
at crossword or sudoku,
I’d find I was just travelling – locomoting slowly –
in a large reticulated arc
back
to you.
Cold gnawing cold, sun weakly sneaking
round borders of clouds – light not warmth;
we realise just how unfit we are as we climb
flight after flight to the white hilltop church,
so very bright, lit by its own ozone hole.
And on the steps, from some West African state,
boys with padded jackets, bad teeth, pigeon chatter
and banter as they weavewindplait cotton threads
into bracelets, keeping warm, making a few euros
and we’re happy to be ripped off. Today,
I don’t want to go inside, to be roofed by domes –
don’t think I’d be welcome anyway, so I gaze
at hazy views, play spot which country with
the pilgrims, watch bracelet boys at work, am cheered
by distant playground shrieks, by not fighting things.
The green door’s shut fast and I’m outside,
too small to reach the brass lion, just
tall enough to press the letter flap, smell
pastry baking, hear kitchen clatter and
chatter. They can’t hear me. I hop, jump,
blow on my hands, but it’s too cold to wait.
Seagulls caw. Leaves flutter. Eight black patent
steps to the corner and, before I can cross –
not many cars… I can do this – I am
swept up, embraced by a man with hairy arms,
a crisp, crackling shirt, a wide belt with a buckle
which makes weals on my legs, lifted high
into a castle of glass, marble and metal,
where loud people eat ice-cream even in
winter, where a hot drink doesn’t mean a
nice-cup-of-tea, but something that comes
hissing from a shiny chrome dragon,
something strange and faintly bitter…
Here I can sit on tables, eat sugar cubes,
cake, anything I like, visit the cooks: I
am sage, princess, honoured guest, welcomed
by all except the spitting, sullen coffee
dragon who sulks at me from his countertop
lair. Safe in this palace… bambino, bambino.