are the colours of oil on water in sunlight

they are a sign of something.

In the long hours

beyond us, irritations heal

into arguments. For the eighteenth time

it comes to this: the length of your leg sliding out

from the covers, the ball of your foot

like a fist on the carpet

while downstairs

I cannot bring myself to hear it.

Words have been spoken; things that were bottled

have burst open and to walk in now

would be to walk in

on the ocean.

POEM

And if it snowed and snow covered the drive

he took a spade and tossed it to one side.

And always tucked his daughter up at night.

And slippered her the one time that she lied.

And every week he tipped up half his wage.

And what he didn’t spend each week he saved.

And praised his wife for every meal she made.

And once, for laughing, punched her in the face.

And for his mum he hired a private nurse.

And every Sunday taxied her to church.

And he blubbed when she went from bad to worse.

And twice he lifted ten quid from her purse.

Here’s how they rated him when they looked back:

sometimes he did this, sometimes he did that.

KID

Batman, big shot, when you gave the order

to grow up, then let me loose to wander

leeward, freely through the wild blue yonder

as you liked to say, or ditched me, rather,

in the gutter … well, I turned the corner.

Now I’ve scotched that “he was like a father

to me” rumour, sacked it, blown the cover

on that “he was like an elder brother”

story, let the cat out on that caper

with the married woman, how you took her

downtown on expenses in the motor.

Holy robin-redbreast-nest-egg-shocker!

Holy roll-me-over-in-the-clover,

I’m not playing ball boy any longer

Batman, now I’ve doffed that off-the-shoulder

Sherwood-Forest-green and scarlet number

for a pair of jeans and crew-neck jumper;

now I’m taller, harder, stronger, older.

Batman, it makes a marvellous picture:

you without a shadow, stewing over

chicken giblets in the pressure cooker,

next to nothing in the walk-in larder,

punching the palm of your hand all winter,

you baby, now I’m the real boy wonder.

LINES THOUGHT TO HAVE BEEN WRITTEN ON THE EVE OF THE EXECUTION OF A WARRANT FOR HIS ARREST

Boys, I have a feeling in my water,

in my bones, that should we lose our houses

and our homes, our jobs, or just in general

come unstuck, she will not lend one button

from her blouse, and from her kitchen garden

not one bean. But through farmyards and dust bowls

we will lay down our topcoats, or steel ourselves

and bare our backs over streams and manholes.

Down Birdcage Walk in riots or wartime

we will not hear of her hitching her skirt

or see for ourselves that frantic footwork,

busy like a swan’s beneath the surface.

But quickly our tank will stop in its tracks;