IVAN

IVAN

She’s out there somewhere, in the carpet.

A broken thread, just like horse's hair.

I think of her from time to time 

And that little boy: my only heir. 

I left her something - part of my mind - 

Under that bed that we shared too long.

But, like her smoke which filled and drenched the air,

When morning came I was gone. 

To be someone, someone but me, 

Was all I ever needed to be.

An icon, brandished like my crucifix,

Was my unchosen destiny.

He’d be eleven, or thereabouts by now,

And wears my genes like hand-me-downs.

The artist, freed and true to life -

If only he could see me now.

She’s like the virgin and I the Light,

Who gives out hope and takes in love.

My watchful eye sits in his brow,

My memory sits with his mum. 

To be someone, someone but me,

Was all I ever really needed to be. 

My face branded on some stranger’s chest

Was my own shot at happiness.

I’ve spent my nights in half empty pubs,

Playing my songs to echoey rooms.

I turned forty-two half way through last June.

And I wake up at six 

In my urban bedsit,

With a head full of shame 

And a gut full of gin.

Not a pound to my name, 

So I earn it by fixing some roof.

Someday I’ll die,

I don’t know when. 

I’m not sure now, but I will be then,

If what I believed

Was heaven-sent.