by Richard Vince

Getting home always felt like a miracle:
Like we had been lifted from the Earth
To the underside of Heaven by
The tired wings of the host of angels
That seemed to guard us.

Either that, or espresso and electronica
Really were enough to enable
Her to keep us safe.

Perhaps it was the bacon that kept me sane;
Enough cured meat can soften even
The sharpest angles of the intrusive, staccato
Bleeps that twinkled like the pinpoints
Of light in the sky they always accompanied,
It seems.

Or maybe it was the thought that kept
Wandering nonchalantly into my
Exhausted brain, hiding behind the silence
I kept in the face of uneven beats or
Her inevitable naps, the World Service
Her lullaby as the midnight trucks
Whistled past the windswept car park.

Alas, I could never sleep: my mind would not
Let me rest, and so I was condemned to
Borrow hours from tomorrow to fund
My participation in our desperate,
Ever lengthening dashes.

Each and every frantic midnight mile
Drove me closer to further away
From her. In the dark, the light dawned:
Lyrics we hoped were meaningless became
Ever truer, leaving my heart ever more
Naked before her steady gaze, increasingly
Realising her worst fears.

Getting home felt like a miracle, but
The reality was far more mundane:
All we needed to do was swallow
The bitterness and get back on the road.


Posted on 03/27/2017
Copyright © 2022 Richard Vince

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