Jonathan Butcher- Three Poems

Whispers

That blade of air slowly slices this room,
and separates us completely. It allows
the blank stares to run free at any table,
no need for us to sit opposite.

The words that bounce from the bottle,
like moths to a light bulb, and fall straight
into our throats. From the pit of our stomachs
they are regurgitated with even less meaning.

So incomplete those final meetings, that allow
us to convince ourselves we are rested without
guilt. The shards of false sentiment marinaded
in cheap wine and cobwebs, now just slightly less
repetitive.   

After that last sip, both our faces drop at
the very mention of this repeating. That blade
of air now blunted, and I shuffle towards that
beckoning exit, without the risk of permanent 
scars.

Home

That same road narrows each time I decide
to grace its pavements, that constant stain
across its sky like beer smudged ash, reflects
across the the oil-slicked puddles that my feet
empty with each quickening step.

The cracks along the walls that we are informed
we pay for on a monthly basis, gradually
expand with each passing week as the torn,
discarded parking tickets and rusted cans
rattle around my feet like miniature hurricanes.

 

The local on the corner which I now no longer

have to sprint pass, my constitution now

immune to its clientele's daggers. Its crumbling

walls now stand pitiful, yet now with a warmth

I begrudgingly decide to accept.

 

The breeze as usual remains inconsistent,

allowing neither flame or plain sailing to

function without error. Another summer

here may well allow our bruised toes to peek

over the edge, but once again I lack an excuse

to leave.  

Visiting

 

Once again, that comfort from your invitation

leaves my head a little more still. No more

thoughts passing at lightening speed, only

tranquil like dust gathered on an abandoned

mattress.

 

The conversation that drops in an out of this

space, never adjusting or assuming, and so

subtle in it's lack of praise. I decide to hold

my tongue when appropriate and only speak

when asked.

 

I never challenge your authority, and only

remain calm under scrutiny. Those wooden

draws in which you stashed your treasures still

remain closed, the view from that smeared window

just as dull as ever.

 

Upon my leaving, we make an attempt at forging

contact, the lines on the palms of my hands interlock

with yours like directionless cogs. I slip away once

more, happy that the air is again clear, and at least
for now your smile is at least content.

Jonathan Butcher has had poetry appear in various print and online publications

including: Popshot, Elbow Room, Ink, Sweat & Tears, The Belleville Park Pages

and others. His Second chapbook 'Broken Slates' was published By Flutter Press.