Choosing a Design

They have put purple cloths around them.
And the candles do not burn at their feet.
It is another coming.
I miss his face.
The baby in her arms.

There is talk of new places.
Places I should have been many years ago.
Before.
When I still had form.
After.
The one hundredth time.

I try to listen.
Try to nod in the right places.
But it is all so very late.
And there is no important date.
Just time.
Passing like the flame which eats the wax.

Fill it up with stories J.
Go to the supermarket and worship the beans.
Find things. Anything.
A gentle, gentle plastic dove with a light under its arse.
Glowing and winking every time I walk back to this place.
It guards the chairs.
The ones neatly set out in rows.
A picture of a casket sellotaped to each back.
They come in all sorts these days.

I think I would like the flowers now.

Perhaps if you make a basket time will stop falling out of you.

I think of the warehouse.
The one with twenty pound furniture and five pound suitcases.
The familiar dents in the handle which no other hand will fit.

The policeman stands in my hallway and says if you leave the chain on we will never be able to reach you. In my mind I vow never to take it off.

I throw the purple cloth over my head.
Blow out the candle.
Choose a design.

I am not sure these new places will be.

I settle on the floor and listen for the wind in the tree.
The tree in the car park. Where the lady next door screams. And tweaker guy hustles.

I think of a cradle of soft branches.
A warm kiss upon my head.