Someone will die of a heart attack or a car
crash soon. Please god, make it soon.
This waiting is dull. We count the sad
women on market stalls and not one
of them is secretly seeing him from the garage,
or the bent copper, or her own husbandís
younger brother. Each night I go to bed
praying for a letter from my motherís
sick room, spelling out how Iím adopted.
A week later Iíll bump into the girl
of my dreams in the park. The usual start.
Drink, meal, roll in the dark in a damp flat.
Weíll name the day, book the catering,
then find out weíre brother and sister
just in the nick. Give me that much
if nothing else. Anythingís better than this.
If you have any comments on this poem, Stephen Giles would
be pleased to hear from you.