oh Lord deliver me

oh Lord deliver me

 

I'm waiting outside

in the corridor

staring at my trainers

 

a soup stain on my jeans

reminds me of Italy

 

the drinks machine does not give change

 

wheel-chaired women,

some groaning, some cursing,

roll into the delivery suite

 

‘is that Isabel yelling? sounds very like her’

 

I’m gasping for a fag

 

did dad smoke in

Izal-stink corridors

while mum was labouring?

 

I saw dad just the once -

his back as he walked away

I must have been no more than three

 

I’ve seen him in a photo,

in a soldier's uniform

standing tall

 

no face though,

a singed hole -

mum burned it away

 

I picture him,

arm round my shoulder,

 

“you’re a father now... cigar?”

 

would I follow his lead

and scarper like his dad

and his before him?

 

I stare at my face

in a window,

my face stares back at me

 

if I walk away

no jury would convict

 

the judge would say,

 

“you had no example,

you can't be blamed,

you are free to go,

without a stain”

 

leaving now might be more noble

than muddling through

a failing marriage

inflicting hurt on Isabel,

 

the child too,

 

having them suffer

my cold detachment,

till I abscond

leaving a faceless entity,

 

an empty frame

 

the doors make way

for a groaning chair

 

somewhere a slap, 

a new-born cries

 

too much noise,

too much fear,

 

I need fresh air,

a cigarette,

 

time to think,

a walk to clear my head.