Head Case

October was a cruel month.

A seasonal shower sullied the water as it charged the gutter,

dancing about the leather soles of cracked brogues.

Whispers of a child shot dead in Iran and stilted weekends back home

Were discussed over cigarettes and safe distances.

A gust of wind brought with it friends, enemies and novels.

Politics brought the rain.

A thousand cups of coffee spilled down the raspy craw of skinny necks,

a thousand cups for a thousand conversations.

A thousand quips were bequeathed to memory,

engrained on the withering leaves of trees.

Dead bone habitually encased thought and opinion,

measured and economic,

distant and wildered,

but spoke:

“These months I read like I’m falling in love again.”

October was a cruel month.

Summer was over and the apples were rotting in the mud.

Retreats south to winter farm-houses were envisioned as evenings set about.

Coffin nails and ink burned upon the margins of Austen novels.

Ash-stained clothes harboured scorched bodies,

dried-out minds chased empty thoughts,

as bone chafed bone, the singular beauty in your stare.

- a single match strike to light the whole affair.