November 5th 2021
I visit the ward on Tuesday, in the city’s west,
autumn exploding on trees like muted rockets.
Read me your new poems? you ask with quiet zest.
I eye the too-loud telly, hands in my pockets.
I know I can’t dodge it, or what’s the point
of having written them anyway? I grab my phone
and thumb this scroll for something the right tone,
pausing on first lines randomly, out of joint.
We didn’t learn enough to justify…
Driving north, I feel like night…
Cancel every meeting with the sky…
Because the poem can’t decide for us,
I settle on this one, the first line of which goes
Hello. It’s been a while. It’s so lovely to see us.