THAT SPACE IN MY HEART                                                                                   

Am I to leave this life unloved

heart half-empty where others’ love for me should lie;

that part that offers love is a well-oiled working engine –

healthy, I’d go as far to say and, fair to say, efficient.

the quality of my given love is sufficient;

I freely dispense it in correct amounts, correct moments,

as a good nurse might her capacity to comfort,

never reaching the end of the line.

 

I wouldn’t want to change any of that, I’m proud

but when I’m honest too, growing old, I shout out loud

my deficit and, dare I say, despair.

But no hair is turned and no-one batters down the door

claiming access to my emptiness

and a wild desire to fill it full.

 

Am I invisible, or a shade, I ask myself?

I was once considered handsome, a turner of heads even –

at least then I could attract, make claims on, people’s attention.

My intention now is just to show I’ve retained a kind of dignity

that deserves recognition, to make an impression, yes (say it) impress!

But I flit between, proffer unheard contributions to,

others’ worthless conversations.

 

I was, I think, once briefly loved, in return for

an unsure patchwork passion on my part –

but the path under my feet has never felt the heat of a

heart’s march through long love, rather the

trudge of the long-term unloved, punctuated by whispered imprecations

lamenting the losses, long ago, of lovers for a moment:

one dead, one that could be so, would be so.

Meant for one another? None shall ever know.

 

There are those, no doubt there are, who love and are loved for life;

are they so very different from me? Should I change my nationality

to, say, Greek, Canadian or Czech, throw a

halter round my neck and sell myself to the kindest bidder?

Or soldier on, cede the wicket, refuse to buy my lottery ticket,

roll back the stone, close off the echoing ballroom of my heart?