The Elusive

 

 

     I have somewhere to be,

a place, a destination – perhaps a

   concert to attend or even, a park.

 

     I have somewhere to be and

have undertaken all checks – the petrol,

the spare tyre the oils and lubricants

   and have the satnav knowing my

      journeys end.

 

     I am keen and fired like

James Hunt, perhaps Jacky Stewart

  and I have ascertained the roads will

     be clear as they mostly are down

        the silent routes of Moray.

 

     I am skilled and learned and now

my goal is reached - my extraction from

city lights and crossroads, buses and

   emergency vehicles,

      the taxis and zebra crossings -

         trucks and freight,

            so much a construct of hate,

                 my three score years now at my own leisure to heal.

 

                    ‘I am, away!’

 

2.

 

     It was my one wish I knew

I could achieve, no need to spend it

  for my toil would labour the days -

     from Dawn till Dusk so ‘that space’ -

         could benevolence my healing

              from grit and despair,

 

     I would wonder what a

world away from the kettle we’re kept -

would do to my sense but always, always -

   there was hindrance that would negate

      my forever free;-

          my longing to be.

 

         ‘then the day came that made my whole life make sense!’

 

3.

 

     I have somewhere to be and know

that if I put my foot down I’ll make good time,

   not quite as far as Sutherland my journey

     negotiates every obstacle to avoid the city,

         I am smiling and there I check the gaze

   of my Stirling Moss and then,

      Moss Side has me glance the mirror away.

 

     I can never leave,

        I can never leave,

            I can never leave for every moment away

   neons I grieve,

      forces the tears and has the scream

         no longer gated but spitting furiously

             the glass beyond the wheel.

 

       I have somewhere to be as I cry

         so solemnly for,

             I always wanted this,

                I fought for this and wanted it

                                             so bad,

                     so bad the city would make me wank

                        ten times a day to be away,

                            to have a right to secure a freedom but,

                                  my tears are the new ejaculation as I wonder;-

                                      what was so green around this metal and glass

                                          that only light - speed squinted before?

                                                               I do not know and then,

                                                 why am I such a stranger to mine own vivid Earth?

                                                    Why am I now so strange – no-one ventures a quarrel

                                                         unlike a city I hate to love that

                                                             had a place for me to be…………

                                                                  ……….to be unconscious and dead and -

                                                                       there buried in a home we call, grave.

 

 

 

Michael J Waite 1st September 2024.