As Good As Gone


Moonlight bright as day and cleaner
slices between broken-open houses
waiting for the demolition crews
and a row of battered skips stuffed
full of goods and chattels left behind
by families who lived here not so long
ago but’ve been moved on to free
up space for the future.  Rats skitter
among heaped-up plastic bin bags
shining like jaundiced black gold under
the only street light, oily JCB’s stand
nose to tail and the last bar, defiance
blazing through steamed-up glass, stares
fate in the eye from across the street.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The young nurse who asks kindly if you’ve
any questions about the procedure
while she double-checks your paperwork just
in case, can’t be much more than twenty-four
or thereabouts.  No, you say, not after
so many years.  She smiles and in her eyes
you think you see the quick connection:  “When
this one was first diagnosed, I was twelve.  
He’s been coming here half my life”.  She’s right,
you have, but measuring your luck afresh
every time you face a new appointment
still leaves you feeling helpless, hollowed-out,
a promising project once, maybe, but
these days getting expensive to maintain.

* Ken Head's poetry weblog is at www.listeningforlight.blogspot.com and he'll appreciate your dropping in to browse and maybe leave a comment if you're passing.