POEM

 

What saves me of topping myself today:

my cat doing a handstand by the window,

Dalida singing Bambino at dawn,

the last spoor of kiss you left 

on my unmown stubble,

the beauty of contrails streaming along the blue sky,

the smell of horse manure in the streets, 

the fulsome warbles of a thrush in the morning,

the siren-cry of ambulances that carry not my corpse,

the rain-scented beams of the sun,

that William Carlos Williams' line:

the night passes, and never passes,

the loud laughing of mum in 1978

while sawing at her Singer,

the last smile you blew like a feather

into the air before waving a fond adieu,

the last spoor of kiss

 you left on my bristly stubble...

Love passes and never passes.