@MattAbbottPoet

@MattAbbottPoet
Image © Copyright Amy Charles Media 2014

2 Mar 2016

L20 3BG



The rain beats down
on the windows of the car.
When you're lost, or you're late,
it sounds like chaos.
But when you're just fine,
and you're warm, and you're comfy,
it feels like someone's massaging your scalp
with the tips of their nails
on the tips of their fingers.



Thursday 3rd September.
You called by,
following routine check-up at the hospital,
shortly after 2pm.
I was upstairs.
Lucy answered the door.
Silence.
"Are you alright?" Lucy asked.
Silence.
"Matt, you'd better come down..." Lucy said,
retreating to the kitchen, to the kettle.

And you looked straight at my chest,
with those Irish eyes, and said,
"I've got cancer."

The world slowly imploded
as I took you in my arms,
and we waited
for the click.

We sat and talked:
passing the diagnosis around the room
like a wailing baby,
trying to make sense of it,
and searching
for calm.



Tuesday 13th October.
I called by,
following major surgery at the hospital,
shortly after 2pm.

They call them "Gates" instead of "Wards",
and it does look a bit like an airport.
At least they had the heart
to avoid a "Departure Lounge."

You moved as though you were standing underwater,
and spoke with the croak of a young Alex Turner.
And as you shuffled towards me,
barefoot, in a night gown,
I've never seen anyone
looking quite that strong.

"You alright, Mum?" I said.
And you looked straight at my chest,
with those Irish eyes, and said,
"I'll be fine."



Thursday 10th December.
I called by,
following a Christmas gig in Pudsey,
shortly after 10pm.
We'd to dash via Agbrigg -
I'd forgotten my passport -
and then over the M62,
to the P&O Port at Liverpool.

With my phone drained of battery,
the Sat Nav took us to the wrong end
of the right port,
in complete darkness,
at 2am.
We tried asking a bloke
by a lorry,
but he was a urinating
unilingual Latvian.

A frantic drive around Bootle,
rescued by the girl
in the all night garage.

Terror,
and then tears,
and then panic,
and then relief.



The rain beats down
on the windows of the car.
When you're lost, or you're late,
it sounds like chaos.
But when you're just fine,
and you're warm, and you're comfy,
it feels like someone's massaging your scalp
with the tips of their nails
on the tips of their fingers.


One by one,
the cars filter up the ramp.
The rain gives way
to echoes of engine noise:
waved on by conductors
in hi vis jackets.

They feed us Fish & Chips,
before bidding us good night.
At lights out,
I suck on an IPA,
and try reading Bukowski
by the light
from the fridge.

At this stage,
it just makes me feel tired
and inferior.

Instead,
I sit watching you
drifting off to sleep.
Your purple coat for a duvet.
A pillow from reception.
Peaceful as ever.

When we wake,
we'll be in Dublin,
where Irish eyes
are smiling.




No comments:

Post a Comment