The rain slaps the windows.

She is so sad.
There are tears, sad tears, but quiet,
barely visible.

The drink is brought
to her by a young waitress
who wears white trainers.
What to say

to someone with wet cheeks?
Steam rises from her cup of chocolate
in grey punctuation.

Measure minutes by sniffles.
A man shoots an umbrella open,
the rain sounds like a shaken box of nails.

Her evening, upturned, quiet tears,
so sad. O girl, let me dip
a slippery finger
in the chalk moon,

mark your table with a white star.
Her tears are the story,
as the weather, so fluid.

Time and time again
rose petals unspool from your chest,
floral television.

Even the starlings know by now
what’s being done. Drips of another
world, an eastern tongue, like

syrupy pills, not prescribed
but there’s enough to go round.
Wash down with ginger ale, a sugar plum

for the road. Afternoon’s bleeding on.
Boy, call again when you can
in discreet tones. Don’t need me to say

it’s better when names are unknown.

In the most random of places.
Like the sandwich section
at Tesco, on your lunch break,

mobile shuddering in your pocket,
agitated by attention. Then,
at the self-service, an image forms,

a memory, dust-heavy and wonky
from lack of recall. Why was it
the dialogue between you

became a drought? The thought
like a blood test. A little pinch, then
the gentle withdrawal.

Don’t look at me.
The bulb busted last night
and now, one day later,

it’s happened again.
A fluke? No, do you really need
to call an electrician?

Faulty wiring, maybe,
or coincidence, an oddity,
rare but possible, like

a win on the lottery.
You ******* in the new one,
a white wink, then death.

Could be a sign mate.
Doesn’t want to be fixed,
no quick hurrah, no donation of light.

A tooth wrenched from its socket,
a lost sock, footless, flapping
soggily in the breeze,

pint glass shatter,
alcoholic splatters
make for kerbside bloodstains,

shopping trolley
on an empty stomach
stands forlorn in the car park

but the graffitied pub wall I luv u
etches to your eyes. No surprise.
That means something, doesn’t it?

Fetch me a tonic, frothing
with something unpronounceable –
that’s what I need,

right down the gullet,
unofficial doctor’s orders. A sip
of simple pleasures

for elevenses, embedded
in the dulling amber
in which I reside, immobilised.

Flicker of skin, the shopping list
of mindless din, autopilot
can still mean a crash, you see,

the dummy in the car, again
that whiplash crack I treat
like cheap and ferocious therapy.

Oh, you could be such a darling
if you heave me from the wreckage,
away from redundant kicks –

say feather-edged words or punch me,
go on, that stubbly space above the jaw.
Either way, I’m petrified, maybe done for.

Tell me in your odd socks
how it rained when
you left the stationery store,

a child you saw
mesmerised by newborn puddles,
their trembling reflection,

how you later caught your own
in a slippery window,
an empty office, gossipless,

droplets almost washing
you away, what you were
into a newer you, just more wet.