A wifetime of incidents 

There was the time we met,

a tactile you;

a black ciggie smoking;

and all I saw 

was what I needed

right then: a worldly whys woman

of travel: not journeying,

not trivial

ex-

cursing the locals for dirty 

ways of working, 

and doing their

staff and their

stuff and their

stiff upper

manners: and the problem I see

was that the woman I thought

you were – and the man I could

once’ve become –

although really not true,

might one day have been

me and you –

even

so.

But something’s now broken:

really badly hurt: you

lost your tobacco as a result of

young foetus, and kinda in

that loss, you did lose

your balls: and you defo did 

have them the day I did 

meet you.

And so life has spun apart

like mad spinning-top, wrenched 

by childish instincts 

none of us

a-

void.

I see no way forwards for the

love – imperfectly ex-

pressed – to recover the things

that even here were

good, even here when other 

stuff was irremediably 

sad.

And the smiles of our children,

now grown up to brill, 

their overcoming of my ills

so fabulously done,

and been and seen and

sensed and sung: at least that

thing we can be proud of.

And all I can see as advice for

the future is do strive to 

thrive –

do try more 

than survive.

For my life does not lie in the

settling-down of the past

but much 

much 

more

in the people we

should’ve 

be-

e-

n.

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