The Poetry Marathon

 

 

I’m coming back and I don’t know why.

Maybe you think you’re giving me a second chance

telling me I wasn’t in the right frame of mind or

that the holidays were on and to remember

how boring that can be for a city as vibrant as you.

 

But I’ve got to say I didn’t like what you had on show back then. 

It was summer, holidays or not, you’re meant to glow with the

vibrancy that you’re known for, but if it was there at all 

it was hidden behind the endless, on top of each other scrawl 

of the Untalented who think their mindless tagging is a form of art.

 

Don’t get me wrong I’ve revelled in what I’ve seen in the past

the juxtaposition of stone, concrete, steel, rust and glass 

that’s been highlighted with spirited splashes of spray can art 

but last time all I could see was that they, I can’t utter their name again

had taken over the city claiming they’d been robbed of what was duly theirs

a place in the annals of art history.

 

I said, NO, and strongly rebutted their claim shouting

‘Can’t you see you’ve been hijacked by an egotisical!’

I wanted so much for you to rise up and slap them down

to tell them to f**k off until they could put some thought

into what they were spraying but no, you cowered lower than taking

it on the chin and allowed them to think they were powerful.

 

It’s me that’s giving you a second chance.

I hope you don’t disappoint.

 

The winter sun warms my lap as it inches slowly upwards to embrace me.

The dew whimpers goodbye as it dries on faux grass and the border of plants

wave at the waning crescent moon who in her desire for more time with her 

distant lover lingers, looking longingly at him in the clear sky blue.

 

As I sit on the porch drinking chai watching this suburban street come alive

I realise I’ve finally arrived at a time and place I never thought would eventuate;

a time where you’re just a memory and the heartbreak of unrequited love is

treasured for the profound gift it was.