4 am poem, 2 july 2008

It is Wednesday. The taxi is outside,
Humming like a hairdryer, and you are
Yet to leave for Holland. I can still taste
Last night’s chickpeas and cuttlefish,
The Fume Blanc, the flavour of you.
I have barely aged in two days, despite
The details of my birth certificate,
And as I sleepily ponder the necessity
Of poetic license, how writing poems
Is akin to fibbing to others and particularly yourself,
Just as every musical needs a chorus line,
And in Hollywood there's a girl for every geek,
All the birds in the street suddenly burst into song
As you, going, close one door and open another,
Proving me wrong, once again.


alexander williamson (Sandbach, Cheshire, 1979)