As I clean my greying beard
clippings out of the sink,
sometimes I imagine stepping onto a punt
to face the old chap Charon—but then what?
At least Greeks had the obolus;
what is my currency—
a donkey jacket and a pair of wellies
turned into a badge of honour?
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
Temporarily at a loss for words, I occupy the space
somewhere between a triangular circle and a winged lion,
weary of constantly mulling over salient interrogations,
like, ‘Can you get rid of eczema in two months
when you’ve been cultivating it for over forty years?’
(Of course you can’t; you even botched your divorce,
and you’d only spent half that time with your ex).
Is that why I like peeping
at magpies?
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
The faintly sordid
yet strangely enticing
scent of an alewife
wafting over the soggy alphabet
pasta in a shallow basin,
the paperback Memoirs
of a Woman of Pleasure on the side,
and a plain handkerchief
freshly stained with shame—
a rite of passage of sorts,
but mostly a prelude
to hassle.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
Who do you call on a foggy morning
if you stumble upon a body: a coroner
or a stationer? But, while still puzzling,
Mr Honk’s swift entanglement in a ream
wouldn’t have posed such a dilemma
if only he’d decided whether he had
woken up next to a cold cadaver
or his oeuvre.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
