Midwinter (Part 1 of 10)

1. Coping

When I first ran the shower jet
over my cold, filthy skin again
I could only just still smell her there.

Later my hair dried in curls
which brought to mind my childhood days
when everything was new,
not straightened by the marching years.

Standing naked, unemployed –
I knew my job had been refilled;
you can’t leave a glass empty so long –
I bundled up the pillows I had puked on,
the duvet I had chewed,
shook off her leftover dust.

—

Children we dreamed of making –
their names, their games.

Savings we planned on staking:
a little pine kitchen
on the bank of the River Itchen,
with space to fit a fridge in;
shiny new handles to embolden,
make golden our inside doors;
tealight candles for a midnight balcony
in the house by the harbour,
where boats come in;

the bedroom,
a shell without a pearl.

—

I’ve bought a book, “Coping With Suicide” –
I’m keeping the page with her last letter –
and I work at the buffet on a Virgin train,
so I can go over and over those tracks,
her tracks, pick up her pieces.

A man comes by with the last of his change,
sees the title,
quickly I cover it

But he looks with loss in his sparkless eyes,
smiles at me and spends his savings.

Maybe, I wonder, he wrote the book,
maybe he can still smell her there.

Or maybe he’ll just write me a poem
while sipping his can of orange.