I never expected to stand in front of the window,
hands in the pockets of my cardigan,
muttering some fancy acronym for pain
in a specific part of my body,
and that getting older would be so mundane.
Yet, I have to survive this unseasonably cold June
and myself.
I met you by chance in the shopping aisle—my old crush,
like the ghost of Christmas past, only prettier, and it’s June.
I know we never went beyond being colleagues,
apart from the occasional coquetry in the cafeteria,
but now that I saw you again, with your kid and a warm smile
on your face with features sharpened by life,
my heart skipped a beat once again.
If only I could recall
your name.
Does six miles on a bike count as a passing grade
in the arithmetic of cookies and pebbles,
or is it just plain old me trying to pretend
that it doesn’t matter how much my body can take,
as long as your smile covers the fundamentals
of cruelty—thanks to Niépce and the Lumière brothers
keeping alive the taste of cheap tinned peaches
served on peanut butter sandwiches for breakfast
with a cup of rooibos tea, already cold
and somewhat salty?
I always liked watching you undress,
but we never talked, and you would often laugh
at my sudden lack of confidence every time our eyes met.
Perhaps that was the problem, and now that all that’s left
easily fits under the crumpled sheet, it’s too late
to repeat the absent words, at least until I relearn the language
of picnics and mint chocolate—a rather meagre price
for indulgence.
When I was young, I wanted to be bold again and again
and write a verse, or better yet, a song.
When I was young, I wanted to hear your giggle
as we switched the dust jackets of Walt Whitman’s books
to pass them off as Jackie Collins’.
When I was young, I wanted to name all the constellations
that illuminate your face so that no one ever again would dare to say
they’re just freckles.
When I was young, I wanted to build a house out of the finger strokes
on the keys of your piano and my typewriter, so we could furnish it
with the gentle brushes of fingertips over lips.
When I was young, I wanted to believe we would never end up
among the Kramers, Hillards, and the like.
Who is to judge if I’m wasting my life?
As far as nature is concerned,
I have already fulfilled my sole purpose
by passing on my genes.
Now all that’s left is to sustain my body
to the very end, whenever that may be.
All the rest is fodder that I convinced myself
I needed to stay determined to breathe:
buy a book, read a book, go to the beach,
tell someone you wish you loved them
no more.
They say I have a birth-given obligation
to suffer life long enough to teach my children
how to despise it as much as I do.
After that, I can retire to my private quarters,
put on my best suit, lie in bed, and rest,
knowing that life has finally returned
the face it borrowed from me.
So, here I am, turning quinquagenarian soon—no longer young, but not quite old yet either.
I decided to change something in my life, and since great things start small, or so they say,
I changed a detail—my briefs for boxers. I also spotted a tiny hole in the heel of the sock
I wore this morning, and for a brief moment, I weighed the pros and cons of darning it
or throwing it away, which is odd because I never paid much attention to my garment before,
so what difference does it make now that we parted ways?
It doesn’t matter that I read everything from Plato to Dostoyevsky
to Faludi and Greer, that I can write complex algorithms as well
as the occasional stanza or two, and that I know the difference
between epistemology and epistolography. To you, I’m just a bore.
At least we didn’t need to extend our only date beyond the length
of the promenade, and your blunt assessment quickly cured me
of online dating.
I don’t get ballet,
or more generally, dance.
As a man of words myself, I see bookshops as chapels
and libraries as cathedrals,
yet both maintain the intimate comfort of my boudoir.
You get the picture.
The same applies to the visual arts.
I still have vivid memories of long discussions with my friend
about painting—for her, it ended with impressionism,
while for me, impressionism began the real deal.
And I will not even mention music—one of the loves of my life.
After all, even deaf people enjoy it,
perceiving the sound as vibrations through the body.
‘Hearing is basically a specialised form of touch.’
Then, what’s my problem with dance—ballet specifically, you ask?
Well, to me, it’s nothing but some bizarre physical exercise,
and while I can appreciate the aesthetics of whirling dervishes,
I see them more as moving statues, if anything.
But what do I know? If you think about it, you could say that a poem
is nothing more than oddly arranged words.
hidden pilcrow 