COLLECTED POEMS AND PAINTINGS - CD Hunter

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The Unravelling

This is a poet’s hutch, a craunch, a
rented house in an even suburb,
There are no dragons here save the farting
exhausts of rampant boys.

Thank God you’ve had your toast; your fighting
cud, your breath once pure fills the air
with your office despair, the drudgery, billeting
your talent to a folded dollar, I understand the
meaninglessness of it all and in the evening rush
the numbered cars stream unnumbered to their
holy castles where the news at the touch of a
button regurgitates its curriculum.

As you left the other day your arm was stiff,
unwaved, your face set sending no message.
On your return the tourniquet weakened
and we spoke in this unravelling humour
such warm love allowed our cave of  discontent.

 

26 Jan 2000