Spontaneous wishes

Thanks be to whatever-it-is that is
the nuclear fuel at the core of this
calm but nervy hunger I now
feel, restoring me to poise and power.
What high ideals are they I wish
as I sit on a broken bench one sad July
by grotty litterbins where the wishbone road divides?

Agonising overthought, paralysis:
these I'd side-step, these I'd give a miss,
have my desires negotiate, shake hands, or
see my spirit get up from the floor
cool and collected, wearing sunglasses.
What is there I've got to do but be?
How much I'd like to lose what's left of me

and just enjoy the clink of keys,
the dark green mass of trees
that shimmer above the underpass—
even the black bins lined up on the grass,
bolt-upright like buzzbied sentries,
bored stiff as me by rubbish duty
(hang in there comrades I say and give them a workers' salute).

O, why point the finger or be bitter?
Just sit and watch a piece of litter
blown free like a crumpled swallow—
there is the thought that you should follow
as it blusters over the perimeter
of bushes—shorn as for intensive care
last autumn, each now with a full head of hair!

(Blackheath, 1997)