dash

Nice Day For A Sulk  
 
Each morning Iím woken between 5 and 6
and thatís far too early to ascertain if  
the French Revolution was a good or bad thing.  
In China theyíre no longer taking the risk;  
her rivers are overflowing with pigs  
and you canít teach a man without water  
to fish. About now youíll be hunting  
for something not-meat, in your lampshade hat  
you turn on from the heat, and learning  
to haggle them down on the street.  
 
If I wasnít so afraid of flying,  
shanghaied into caring for two foster children,  
Iíd surely discover other excuses  
to keep myself grounded. Iím drinking  
too much, Belle and Sebastian pour  
from the back room and into the kitchen;  
I drift from the saucepan, out of the window
and climb up as high as the Worcestershire Beacon,
then Google street view The Forbidden City  
so that I see what you see.
 
Last night I dreamt your plane was landing  
on our back-garden lawn that hasnít been mowed
and skidded on dog shit I havenít been clearing,  
tumbled over and over and came to a stop
upside down in our pond thatís still without frogs.  
I peered through the window and saw  
youíd survived, but were trapped inside,  
trapped for miles and miles. I think this is what  
youíd mean by projection and my way  
of saying the shipís close to sinking.  

Raymond Miller

If you have any thoughts on this poem,
Raymond Miller  would be pleased to hear them.


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