Something I've discovered about writing a poem a day, is how little room it leaves for anything else. Like a beagle, my mind persists in attaching itself to and following anything that has even a hint of poetic material. The whole day starts to turn itself into a poem. I really must try to stop, it's driving me a little crazy. Thankfully I feel the yen for a landscape poem ... which gives me the perfect excuse to head out of town sometime before this month is over.
Time mocks me as it slides by
turning memories only five years old
into sentiment. Like how I miss
certain people, now gone from this place
with no chance any more
of bumping into them down town.
In the cleanest Public Toilets
I look at myself in the mirror, afraid
that what I see isn't the real me,
or alternatively, is an only too-real
reflection of someone shopping alone.
Too long spent tumbling
your own unspoken thoughts
will drive you crazy in the end.
It's no wonder lonely people
cry out suddenly or wave to strange cars
and buses when they cross at the lights.
To get the bus home I happily retreat
from designer-frontages, clever windows,
to dog-eared Rattray Street,
a detour to Stafford's SaveMart,
where pretension is a foreign concept
and friends take cheerful intakes of breath
at surprise finds, “Do I look good in this?”
Where I am content
among the smell of other people
and no longer have to try.
I know where these people are coming from
and why they stay. I feel myself relax
into a ball of happy plasma.
Kay McKenziee Cooke