Nothing will be right in the world again

Plumber comes one cold morning
to talk of moving our laundry if the
sewer’s in reach – don’t want to rely on
pumps and mechanical things he says,

then
clucking his tongue, equivocating,
drops news of a football coach
murdered by his son.

Next day,
papers are ablaze with
images of him chiselled strong
from stone but gone. I

cannot forget what
his daughter tells the press:
Nothing will be right in the world
again, she says.

Boy-and-dyke, we
galvanise pipes against
corrosion, insulate wires,
superstitiously give time in mind to

battle half-expected calamities
— metastasising cells,
treacherous blood hosting
unwanted foreign visitors,

le coeur en panne,
hours lost in doctors’ surgeries,
wearing hope like a homemade badge —
even as we butter toast, make

renovation plans. We house our dreams
like caterpillars hide wings,
imagining flight
set against a

horizon where the sun won’t stall
broken and fizzing one day
in all that lawless water, its
wires exposed.

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4 thoughts on “Nothing will be right in the world again

  1. Wow, packs a punch, Phil. ‘We house our dreams like caterpillars hide wings…” in fact, that entire last section literally took my breath away. Thank you for capturing this juxtaposition and putting words to it.

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