I wrote out his poem
On the Saturday morning
With fountain pen & purple ink
It was to be my new creative habit
I had bought his book
This poet of nothingness
One day earlier in the week
I must remember the inspiration
By lunchtime
I had determined
To email a facsimile
Of the aforementioned creation
To an old flame
An ex long-term partner
However, I didn’t have the time
I was already more than half an hour late
We hadn’t spoken in ages
The parting was acrimonious
Laden with unrequited love & hate
She was from an Island, I am a country boy
How to begin, I was thin
On ideas I let the wheel steal
My thoughts; the past excesses
Led me to opt for simple stresses:
I think of you
This poem
Makes me think of you
I don’t know why
But it’s true
Most days
I think of you
I don’t know why
But it’s true
Seventy miles later, off
The motorway, onto the A road
A load off my mind, to find I’d found
An opening, an introduction to please her
Evening and night passed slowly by
If only I could be back home, for there
I could decide whether to remain quiet
Or to outreach; the poet’s embraced words to share
Awake by half-past five
Ready for the Sunday drive
How many times to ask or realize
Should I dare, or would I be criticised
The mail was sent by noon
Soon I was wondering: was it right
Was it the liquor that left me feeling tight
The light was on me, and I was, over the moon
Is it fair, to play separate tunes
To mix & match Virgo and October
Is it over, if it all goes awfully wrong
Is it better to sing duets of the joyful song
My conscience played along, I was weak
Yet also admirably strong, no longer in doubt
The words were out, out and about in the ether
Trying their best to meet her on favourable terms
I checked my inbox almost immediate
There was no return. On the hour, every hour
I powered up the text, nothing to detect, suspected
A failing internet; what to expect, she was past regret
As if we’d never met; O let me let her go
No, check just one more time, ring and test
The telephone line; the operator, in a tired voice
Says, sir, everything is fine, maybe the user declined
To acknowledge your call, that’s all, that’s why
Transmissions don’t always go through, blocked
Off by the ethernet’s boys in blue; she doesn’t know
How true my words are, she doesn’t know, how true
One last time before retiring to bed
The screen shows a solo email left unread
From dead to alive, I jump and jive, thrive on
Her every word, driven to distraction, my reaction
To read between the lines, try to define, seek
The hidden reverb; it’s late, I can’t concentrate
I hesitate; she will have to wait, until the morning
When the daybreak dawns and with a clearer mind
I find how simply matter of fact
Was her truncated, dispassionate reply
Why then would I ever need to wonder why
She doesn’t know, she didn’t ever know, what to say