Wednesday, 7 September 2016

poetry 2016 / 101

Stone Man

Morning wakefulness
before the alarm –
turned off now to avoid
waking other sleepers.
My sheets soaked
the outpouring of nightmares
a broken house
letters for a departed flatmate.
I can't recall his name.
Tom something.
Ton... something Irish
but not a Mc or an O'
( I had another flatmate from Tralee
and a brief affair with his cousin
but nothing that ever lasted.)
I google what I can remember:
Tom. Stone carver. Wolverhampton.
But the search comes up blank
and facebook has no hits either.
He might be dead, I suppose,
he was my age after all – or
he might be computer phobic.
Last time I saw him was in '88
Ranahan, I remember hours later,
in conversation with someone
so they think I have Tourette's.

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