The 2008 World
I tell the nurse I canít seem to hear him breathe.
This is my fault. I should have paid attention,
spotted the instant when the man
who had been staying here - that tenant of the body
- slipped out, decided it was time to leave.
My assumption is sheíll try and get him back.
Help will be summoned. A mass of people
flooding in to shock and shake him
- wasnít he supposed to be here longer?
They will work in unison, launching their attack.
Only the woman takes his wrist. Heís gone,
hasnít he? I ask. She gives a nod. And now
the raw air quivers, brings murmurs
from another room. This will be the snooker.
Iíd been watching earlier. Do you want anyone
with you? she asks. A cup of tea?
seems overdone. I am about to say No thanks
when joyous cheers surge in. OíSullivan has won.
I think of frames and scorelines. Anything,
anything at all. Just not this inconvenient fact.
If you have any thoughts about this poem, Sibyl Ruth would be
glad to hear them.