While I’m driving I often imagine
a flick of the wrist
and just piling in
to the oncoming traffic.
I am so selfish.
No more self analysis.
No more coping strategies.
No more bloody mea culpa
or sodding bloody hubris.
No more starting again.
No more counting to ten.
Just an end.
Out for the count.
I’m not angry.
No, that’s not true.
I’m not angry with you.
But as for my behaviour…
that’s another story altogether.
The way I moved through
to pastures new
without a backward look
makes me feel sick.
Not even a matter
of the grass being greener,
obvious to all I was on to a loser.
The novelty factor- a cheap thrill
for the hedonist
with no willpower.
I’m not dissatisfied.
No, that’s not true.
I’m not dissatisfied with you.
But as for my behaviour…
that’s another story altogether.
I hate being fifty
the invisibility
that comes with gaining
your first half century.
At least the second has a certain kudos,
something to look forward to I guess.
I need to discover a new set of spells
for the old ones have sure as hell
lost their potency.
Perhaps there are schemes,
Government funded, I can enrol on.
How to make the most of
raging hormones…
I’m not unhappy.
No, that’s not true.
I’m not unhappy with you.
But as for my behaviour…
that’s another story altogether.
I tire of the endless fight
and the solitary ride.
The lonely nights
waiting for children
taking more freedom
than I wish to give them.
Using all my persuasive skills
finely honed over the years
to pick up towels
from bathroom floors;
Management teams,
and buyers whims,
deadline completion
and budget revision;
Fading parents
who I love dearly
but who weary me
with their constant need
for my attention.
I don’t regret.
No, that’s not true.
I don’t regret you.
But as for my behaviour…
that’s another story altogether.
I don’t regret
finding you
after all these years,
though the memories
are a complex mix of
emotions stirred,
rising from an abyss
that for good reason
time warned should be left in peace.
But when did I ever listen
to advice?
While I’m driving I often imagine
a muzzle pressed into my temple,
the soft squeeze of a metal trigger,
as the remains of my brains splatter
the black leather interior.
I am so selfish.
No more self analysis.
No more coping strategies.
No more bloody mea culpa
or sodding bloody hubris.
No more starting again.
No more counting to ten.
Just an end.
Out for the count.
