ÓÓÓconfidence of those roads

sad attics

a smile from her could be unwelcome

would be dust

back from Bingo

Rembrandt alone

never telling

Noel played the tin whistle

all grace notes

half-forgotten now


blocking the way

green knit cap

almost malicious

blotting pad and a pen

less than no money

almost defiant

‘I’ll go and wet the tea’

under the good sheets

followed in one’s example

bright and innocent

thinner, reedier

no white polar necks

greasy hair

had to allow for chance

manufactured sadness

almost simpering

too much regret

one of his gray socks

reading nothing

‘if I were not a widow’


at school

the old ditches

suffering from silence

circle at twilight

giving back something long lost

every ounce of selfishness


her dead face

dull and neutral

thin but not

even evergreens

jacket and tie

‘your mother’s in Italy’

so rotted

all it’s apparent monotony

hard and rubbery

somewhere to go

the after-shine


cause no comment, now or in the future

soothing him

fall asleep beside her

his own boots and duffel coat


barely able to cook

her eyes bright

comments on all matters

the best oil at the best price

harmless daily grunt-spings

rolling you as you sleep

a bitter joke

could not do nothing

this vain search

stopping halfway through every sentence

reduced to silence

whistling menace

without a single speck of cloud