NOM DE GUERRE

NOM DE GUERRE

NOM DE GUERRE

The heatwave has brought forth all manner of blossom:
there are alcoholics in the gardens
of the church where my parents were married.
In the late afternoons, they lambast each other
with what life and death scenarios of the day.
They have special names like Dogsy  and The Surgeon,
as do their drinks. If I ever park myself
back on that particular bench, I’d like a special name.
I wish my life were more coherent.
The pavements are sweating a sort of grey gunge.
I have lost the ability to imagine winter.