Chicken Tikka for One (I.P.)

There was a spark there...
somewhere – sometime,
but last night – standing
at the sink, washing-up
from dinner...

as a Brillo pad, listens
to a burned out pan,
I forgot to try.

I could hear your voice
yet I couldn’t understand
the screech of its meaning.

Tell me there are bridges
still to cross; poems to write,
but the parchment – too white
too eager – the wad of pages
too thick.

A blind night...no eyes
shining brightly down. No
sound...no wind,
no wings silently beating.

Discarding my pen, it falls
to the floor; trace it
as it rolls. Follow
the paper-trail, past
the waste-bin – navigating
the wrecks

to the hallway...through
the kitchen door, where
the steely light of morning
stretches endlessly on,
to the river beyond.

Awakening, lying alone
on cool sheets,
you were the first...
and the last thought,
in my mind.