Poezja

We are all waiting for it:
our swoon of moon in June.
We take our ticket and join the queue;
shuffling, expectant, envious
of those who depart
clutching their proffered gifts:

A gaudy bauble; glittered, brittle,
hollow as a promise.
A granite obelisk; unyielding, eternal -
an everlasting certitude.
A first edition –pages crackling
with crisp innocence.
A duck down pillow; for nestled slumber,
not threshing in the throes.
A greasy Buddha, glistening
with divine, tantric potency.
A red roman candle - a whizzed, fizzed
scintillant snort of pepper.
A broken clock; no tick nor tock
nor hand nor face nor chime.

Time slips by unnoticed,
days become months become years.
We shuffle some more and whisper,
“I wish, I wish, I wish.
Fingers crossed, toes crossed -
star cross’d - me next, me next!”

We have pennies in our purse,
thrifted through our thirst.
We have toiled through the grind
and groan of lost love’s labour.
We have been promoted, exalted,
displayed like a sequinned mannequin.
We have been made redundant;
set down gently on a bed of clichés.
We have signed the contract,
then watched the paper curl and burn.
We have earned our wage -
this swooning, mooning June.

It’s our turn now;
heart fast, eyes wide, skin flushed.
Hands reaching out we cry,
“Is this the one? Is this the one?
Please, let this be the one!”
We are handed a note:
The item you requested
is currently out of stock.

The moon waxes and melts on the floor.
December winds sting like a frigid teasel.