I remember

I remember

Those moments when everything seemed right

There weren’t many

But they were there

Distinct and precious

She was often involved

But then that was to be expected.

Rarely has it been,

Since the chill entered the bones

A blanket ruffled up to my chin

The fear of letting the world in,

That I have felt things were right.

Perhaps one day

After internment

I will be found

Stone cold

With frozen fingers clasped around a thick book

A copy of the latest Franzen

Or a classic tale of redemption

By Victor Hugo or Dickens.

Whoever found me

Would be bound to comment

On the choice of literature

Suiting the man

“So insular

Even in a crowd

He had a way of creating a yard of space”

Perhaps I should have been a centre-forward.

There is a rhythm to solitude

Music in the chatter of the Blackbirds

The caw of the Crows.

Stone me

The Cicadas can get under the skin

With the insistence of their call

But at least they are not cockroaches

The thought of them

Can turn the stomach.

Old memories of Holly Street

In Hackney

When infestation was a shared experience

Part and parcel of social housing.

Sometimes it brought the best out in me.

What if I had continued to write

Pushed a pen over paper

Ripped up a few pages

Published another book

That was more than a chapter

In a psychology manual,

Would there be any point

When the bottom dropped out

Of that world a long time ago.

What would they remember me for,

Those strangers

Who have shared nothing

Of my journey,

The way I sat in a chair

Refusing to fall asleep,

Railing against the dying

Or the acceptance of support

From volunteers,

Who remind me of holiday camp entertainers,

Or will I be

The guy who said he was a writer

Of prose and verse

But in the end

Was no better than all the rest.