Lull

We learn to ignore some news, to pass
over words as if they are not words
at all, but kitchen debris, or less:
an on-off girl/boyfriend's bad moods.

Other news nags - it is intended
to. The skewed, less even-handed
stuff sticks in us like beetley splinters.
The papers, after all, all want us

fraught, even - particularly -
when we can't do a blessed thing,
or it's none of our business, or too early
to tell, or there's no actual news among

the avalanche. If I want to forget
I must reclaim, utterly complete,
each everyday feeling. And I suppose
I've got my own handed down recipes.

For Pleasure: a picnic by the river,
rugby ball-squat ducks, and a flotilla
of swans doing impressions of ever-
empty Tunnel of Love boats. A willow

or two, whose skirts are invaded by wind.
For Anxiety: I check my holiday fund,
or count things - partners, loft mice, change -
or ask the hairdresser for a swooping fringe.

For Melancholy: old birthday cards.
For Boredom: clothes-shopping. Shrieking of hangers.
Accessories. Overheard spousal codes.
Deadly discounts on shoes. White fungus

of lingerie growing on carousel copse.
I wait by the changing rooms, near to collapse,
for an hour to add that authentic touch.
And I think I've forgotten. I've jumped the switch.

But then:

The one-screw limbs of shop mannequins
turn behind my back. The pins
that hold their outfits' shapes are pulled,
their dresses slide off and lie, pooled

at white feet. And I'm still, too still,
as one steps down from her pedestal.