Rory Waterman: Stranger

Stranger

Snot-billed brats in playsuits lump about
in ball-pens, squiggle through tubes
to squishy, mats the laugh or scream again.
Others chew biscuits, or writhe like dogs in prams.

Enough to put me off my carrot pressé,
my hunk of crumble cake. Then a two-foot scruff
with saucer eyes waddles to my knee,

fingers his nose as if uncorking it,
and asks me plainly, sweetly, who I am.

Perhaps I’m not the man I’d like to be.

© by Rory Waterman
(TLS June 17 2011 – Copyright © The Times Literary Supplement Limited 2011)

Poetry in a Global Box: United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland

Rory Waterman

A Suicide

Away. And for a moment as you tipped,

traversed the awful point of no return

and yelled, stretch-torsoed in the faraway,

you faced us. Eyes unseeing mirrored mine:

I thought of me; the you in me, in us;

and all the things you’d given us to say.

© by Rory Waterman