Words on a Page
Those lapping waves
had washed it away .
Our pens had leaked.
And, inevitably, we came out as stained as when we went in;
That was to be our mark, our ocean of punishment.
It was like a brand we had to live with
But whatever we wrote was indistinguishable
From last week’s news.
Once the cool North East was cynosure for the bunch of them.
They were like ants: swarming, swamping each morsel
To partake of all we had to offer
It was as though it was a feast they could not do without.
Now all of them are gone
I write one e mail after another
But no one bothers to answer
They all got on trains. Each one was different.
It was like scattering seeds
I can’t imagine
Where they are going
Or where they will get off
Later on, by myself again,
I spent hours
Trying with the remover to remove;
Blue ink on white shorts
Is never a good idea
My wife said
Throw them away
But I keep at it
It is like a fetish
I keep thinking I must go back
Finish whatever it was that I started
Must finish something
Or it will all be meaningless.