You Said You Would Write
Two strong coffees
and an hour of unfocused staring,
and now the hour rolls round
to put on some clothes
and then to take them off again
and return to bed.
Later, it will be time
to stride down the driveway
and wait by the iron mailbox
on its solid wooden post
for the truck to round
the corner – red, white and blue.
Time even, if he is late,
to hop up and straddle
this dark metal postal horse
by the side of the road,
time to lean forward,
jockey of romance
in my imaginary silks –
a red and black hexagon –
full of hope, whip in hand,
mad for the stamp, the blue curve of your pen.
Whenever I stare into the future,
the low, blue hills of the future,
shading my eyes with one hand,
I no longer see a city of opals
with a sunny river running through it
or a dark city of coal and gutters.
Nor do I see children
donning their apocalyptic goggles
and hiding in doorways.
All I see is me attending your burial
or you attending mine,
depending on who gets to go first.
There is a light rain.
A figure under an umbrella
is reading from a thick book with a black cover.
And a passing cemetery worker
has cut the engine to his backhoe
and is taking a drink from a bottle of water.