tranklements

Sharing the shelter of the bus
waiting to be deposited around the city.
Sharing the damp air misting the windows.
Plugged into our own private worlds
through an ipod, a phone, a newspaper, a book.
We don’t want to share anything.

You’re not there; I haven’t heard you for a while.
It’s been ages since we sat outside your door; faces tilted for the sun.
When did we last share a bag of chips?
I can’t remember the last time I waited on the other end of the phone,
while you rattled and clattered to put it down at your end.
I want to hear you laugh.
You understood, you got it.  We could talk.
But you’re not there are you?
You are gone.
I will never hear you again.
But I leave your number in my phone, your address in my book.

You’re only 21 once.
That’s no secret,
but the secret booking
for the secret party
was.
Until it passed to me
by accident.
My secret 21st birthday party.
So, my secret
was keeping secret
from everyone
that I knew their secret.
Not hearing white lies,
pretending not to know.
I wished I didn’t know.
I didn’t want to know.
Didn’t want it to be real.

Why does she not know?
How can she not know?
She should know
it would be the last thing for me.
Why does she not know?
Centre of attention
not for me.
She tried so hard.
Tried to do the right thing
and got it so wrong.

Wrong boyfriend for a start.
Selfish, whingeing, whining,
pathetic that my attention
might not be all for him.
A wrong cocktail of family
mixed with work mates
mixed with school mates
mixed with his surly kin.
All hinged on
and pivoting around
me.
Pretending.
Wrong.

It was over and I was relieved
that I was released
from my role as pretender.
Guilty relief
just as fresh
14 years on.

Shining for no-one
January Christmas decorations
at the post Christmas work’s Christmas do.
Take your pick
Pernod and black, Gin and orange
something unknown and blue.

He won’t dance,
so it’s just you
new frock
and silent disapproval.
His sullen mardy face
a pathetic reaction too many.

And then
you’re on the outside inside
looking in and out.
It’s you but it’s not.
You see
what will be
a split second ahead.
And
it leaves your hand
slowed down by the rage
you’re throwing at him;
confidence chipping
days of silent rage
taken time
and a bottle
which misses
and smashes
beside his sulking face.

Now it’s all quiet
and it all settles
in the clean space of your head.
Everything in its right place.

Take a cup
Better if it’s white
Bone china’s best
Freshest water into the kettle
Wait a while
Warm your cup
A bit of water
Sloosh it around
And away down the sink
In with your teabag
Wait for the boil
Straight into the cup
Squeeze the bag hard
Wait again
It’s mashing
Splash of full fat milk
Clatter your spoon
‘Til it’s the colour of slightly tanned skin
Don’t skimp a step
Everything’s crucial
It’s not a thing to be rushed
All good things worth waiting for
Especially this cup of tea.

Two little girls in prams with mums on the bus.
One’s asleep sucking her dummy – an overgrown baby,
the other’s wide awake, dummy free and looking for someone to play with.
She strokes the face of the sleeper
who doesn’t stir.
She pulls out her dummy.
She knows she’s pushing it.
She gets a half-hearted telling-off.
Dummy goes back in.
She wants a proper reaction.
She pokes the sleeper’s eyes to try and open them.
Surprised tears announce the rude awakening.
“I squashed her eyes,” she explains with a smile.
Mum is embarrassed now.
I look out of the window.

It’s coming
You can smell it
Animals know it
You can almost taste it
Fresh, clean, new air
Buds ready to burst
First flowers waiting
Sun hanging around longer
It’s almost here
It’s just around the corner
It’s nearly Spring.

I was made in Sheffield
So were my scissors
They used to call it Steel City
Not anymore, my Sheffield’s on the up
Hard graft shoved out by hard sell
They’re building over Sheffield’s past
Polishing away its mucky industrial history
Sweaty factories now apartments actually and chattering call centres
Names and dates carved proud above doors, meaningless decoration
Now smoky windows give away nothing.

It’s not all worthy of polishing up
Pockets are forgotten in this rush of change
Ashamed of and pushed to the back
Taken over by dark alleyways and broken windows
Streets patrolled by working girls
Once the domain of the workingman
I get lost now in my Sheffield
Names are the same
But they’re not the familiar streets I walked without thought
Now surprising landmarks
A road emerging where there used to be a building.

Blackbird in the garden
blowing on a branch.
Keeping watch.
Has he seen me
spying on him?