Help Desk    


He sucks in air as though
licking hard candy,
then leaves a message saying
something about an appointment
so maybe I’ll ring him back,
see if he’ll take that Friday slot.

But his record reads Deceased, same date
he left the message. Two hours
after he spoke the air in his mouth
was lying on his tongue
like a tourist on a beach, wondering
who’s going to breathe it next.

Perhaps it’s found it’s way here,
to my corner of this office.
I’m breathing his last breath,
chasing it down with a slug of cold tea;

trying not to shudder with glee
as I delete his words with the touch
of a finger. Perhaps they were the last
he ever spoke, panting down the phone

as the years sunk their teeth into his lungs
and ripped out his last breath. I wonder
who’ll breath it after me?

Purely Personal Dilemma   


‘Anxiety’ seems too small a word
for every revolver going ballistic,
every word nailing evidence
prosecutors will use to tear you
to shreds. Soon all that’s left
is the verdict. Your own, of course;
the court has more interesting cases
than how deeply you pored
over empty casings, ignoring
the bullets lodged in your back.
There's time for the appeal,
but who will hear your plea?
The court has closed for the duration,
hung up a sign reading

we haven’t gone fishin’;
we’ve just gone. We find everyone guilty,
including ourselves,
so there’s no need to pass any sentence
shorter than a day or longer
than a lifetime.
And now it’s done you can walk
free as a bird with its wings
shot to pieces. In a million years
or so a black hole will drop by
to clean up this mess, so I wouldn’t worry
if I were you. There’s no court higher
than your own, so why not
cut yourself some slack?

You did nothing wrong, boy.
Now go and get some rest.