Remarks
I put this poem together pretty quickly after I came back from a day trip to San Francisco. When I look closely at Heaney’s poems I find so much clever material and depth that I feel a little hopeless trying to write poetry can approach his writing. If I don’t look too closely at my poem, I like it.
When you twitched,
The footsteps kept rhythm and
Drivers held their shaded gaze.
Yet, I looked. I looked at your shaking hands
Plunge deep into your crumpled folds
Of fabric, head sewn to knees.
The light turns green:
I sit dry-throated and pedal.
The traffic insists on it.
That dream we shared thins,
Evaporating off the hot concrete,
Where you and your belongings are scattered.
Down a street, I see you once more,
But it’s your spirit I recognise,
Not the different flesh.
You stand, folded like fresh laundry.
That piercing silver glimmer,
Grasped in a loose fist,
Is threaded through your black garb.
Suddenly, I roll past you.
That shared dream precipitates:
“Tweaker City,” my friend chirps.
I only twitch seeing misery
Whisper so loudly, so near.