The Drive Home from the Hospice – A Poem by Jonathan Beale
As if returning from Kings Cross or Grand Central Station
The surrealist event that had witnesses the comings and goings
Of the likes of you and the other people there.
not me not us – or so we thought.
We drove back in the car somehow occupied with elephants
and capsules of words, we had failed to think of,
or just had not said. The night, just an old billiard table
full of holes where the hopes had escaped.
The drive home from the hospice. With some personal effects
That had taken on a new dimension since the ‘ending’
Thoughts, exclamations, laughter
And all manner of paroxysm, strangely absent.
The terminus: was a double ending (we’d never return)
The paths would cross we’d go on and on for forever…?
for the likes of you and the life we had leave unlived.
Not me not us – or so we thought.
