The smell of creosote doused with dog piss
as I speak to you through a knothole
in the garden fence. The strobe of sunlight
through park railings as I race to the ice-
cream van and buy us both Fabs. The bubble
of snot that pops and washes streaks of dirt
from your chin as I make you cry for no
good reason. The salt taste of your belly
button as a game of Mummies and Daddies
takes a sweaty turn beneath the plastic
roof of your Wendy house. The hollow feel
that contradicts the swelling of my heart
as I watch exhaust fumes dissipating
from the removal van that takes your toys
away and may as well run me over.
Comments
lenchenelf | August 28, 2009 - 11:27
Really like the way you've conveyed pace and sensory strength of the memory/poem atb Lena
Ewan | August 28, 2009 - 14:50
I take your point about the title. However, I'm still thrown by the recording in the poem of what you've forgotten because you're now dead. Apologies if I'm being particularly thick. :-O
Ewan
chuck | August 28, 2009 - 16:55
The way I see it the writer (speaker) is emotionally dead but the memories linger on.
threeleafshamrock | August 28, 2009 - 17:13
I think the writer feels like his life is over (or might as well be). I also think this is just a bit brilliant in how it captures the sentiment perfectly.
I wish I had written it; what else can I say.
Well done.
Chris
WilkyBarKid | August 29, 2009 - 12:15
The title is one of those trite phrases that come out of nowhere. The poem was written on a Post-it note in about half an hour, between serving customers at work. During the process, it somehow wandered off and marked out its own territory.
My justification is that it is ironic. The narrator remembers these scenes all too clearly, although he tries to convince himself that he's emotionally dead.
The writer is fine, but wonders whatever happened to... Well, you don't need to know her name.