The 2008 World Championship Final

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?  Her tact
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.

Sibyl Ruth

If you have any thoughts about this poem, Sibyl Ruth would be glad to hear them.