Strike Three

Neil had made three major decisions in his thirty five years.

One, age twenty six, was to get married. Ended in divorce.

The second, age twenty nine– obtaining a mortgage. Re-possession.

Third, last night, attempting to sever the arteries in his wrists.

Funny how failure can sometimes save your life.

Cuppa Joe

He had always been told that it was important to smile at others – make them feel nice about themselves. Coffee shop worker, bus driver, lady in the street. So he did. Sometimes they smiled back.

But he didn’t know their names. They had names, everyone has names. Other people knew his name – official people from the bank or electricity company. They knew his name and used it as a commodity.

Someone who would be happy to hear his name.

He did know one name – ‘Buddy’.

He saw Buddy one afternoon, standing on the path between the gate leading into the neighbour’s  house where he lived and the grass verge by the kerb. Buddy was just standing there. Looked like he was thinking, pondering, wondering.

Looking up, Buddy’s long tail waved gently, clearing the air for his friend to pass by. His eyes smiled.

A pat on the head is important, especially from someone whose name you know.

“Hey Buddy”

Hey Joe. 

ShutEye

Close your eyes for one minute. Just one minute.

What do you see?

A palm tree.  A desert island. Old school friend. His house, kitchen, mother smiling.

The beach. People walking. The newsagents, ice cream, double decker bus. The sun. Cars. 

A horse.

All from the past.

All unregulated and scattered randomly without pattern.

All yours.

Nowt for Owt

- What do you want to do?
* Everything.
- That's a lot of stuff.
* I know. That's why I do nothing.

He Lied

He felt tired. 

Tired of the words, the footsteps, the thoughts tormenting his soul. 

Tired of the act, the game, the relentless slide to nothingness. 

Drained by empty platitudes voiced in a monotone air. 

Worn down to the root by the self-enforced, unreciprocated lightness that compounds the bulk of this temporary contract we call presence.

But instead he just said “Great thanks, how about you”?

Today

Full and thrusting forward
Clamorous and mean.
Streets strewn with weighty footsteps
Faces rarely seen.
Meetings to attend to
Goods transported there
No place for the faint-hearted
No place for a rocking chair.
No time for honest greeting
Or how are you today?
Rendered through a benumbed body
More move out of my way.
Regarding all the mayhem
On a Monday afternoon
Sits one man on a blanket
His hat contains two 'loons'.
Name of Willie Johnson
Born in Thunder Bay
A stranger in this city
Who's name you know.
Today.

Next Door

I met my next door neighbor

For the first time yesterday

I waved a cheery greeting

As I went upon my way.

Til then the only inkling

That someone lived upstairs

Were footsteps in the morning

And the noise of moving chairs.

I wondered what he looked like

Was he tall or short or thin?

Conundrum solved one morning

As he rolled his wheelie bin.

It’s nice to know your neighbours

Creating a new friend

It’s nice to know your neighbours

That’s what matters in the end.

Imagine my embarrassment

As I rose my hand up high

The wave not once acknowledged

Be neither seeing eye.

His dog strained his tight collar

With inconsiderable ease

But I’d wager one new dollar

Guide dogs aren’t Pekingese.