i live about forty miles from London in a place called Basingstoke, Hampshire. I have published some seven collections of poetry and have about a thousand poems floating around the web. But more important to me is if someone I don't know were to send me an email telling me they were moved by my work.
As we sit on the bus —
my son playing on the iPhone —
me looking at the young mum
and the small boy who keeps staring at me
and the black woman who lives around the corner —
"Damn! I'm dead," my son says.
"Dan, most people are dead their whole lives — they just don't know it."
I got some food and went to the counter at the supermarket.
I told the young lady she looked happy.
"Yeah, I feel happy today."
"Perhaps you are in love." I said.
The older woman who was stood next to me
looked at me with raised eyebrows.
I shot her a look.
"No I am not in love," She said.
I could have said:
A beautiful young lady like you, you should always be in love, I will love you...
But instead I said something else. Something safer.
I walked out of the shop wanting to go back in,
walked past the shop window a few times,
watched her still there smiling.
I thought of what might of been —
just like always
some things don't change.
A man walks toward me.
He is clicking his heels loudly against the floor.
I look at the man.
I look at his shoes.
He stops clicking them against the floor.
He gets past me and starts to click them once again.
I walk into the pub. There is a new girl serving behind the bar.
"Somebody told me beer was a good thing to try - it will be able to
help. Can I try one? They say Abbott is good."
She gets a small glass.
"Do you want to try a little first?"
"Yeah, why not," I say.
The man at the bar says.
"Good pint that one."
She comes back and I down the drink.
"Yeah, I like it - I will take one!" I say.
I go off with my favourite beer of choice.
The other barkeeps look at me confused as I sit down with what must be my hundredth Abbot Ale.
©2015 Marc Carver