Through broken monuments and scaffolding
I drive my body like a builder's crane.
Each limb's a weight to lift, a load to swing.
The force of will controls the fact of pain.
The television prattles on unheard.
Distraction claws and corrugates the page
and fading sensibilities are stirred
by archive footage blipped and cracked with age.
The fear of shame conceals the face of fear.
All movement's plotted. Always at my back
the brisk impatient "Come along then, dear".
I've known enough of love to know its lack.
Marooned in plush velour and polished chrome.
Lost in the heart of brightness. Far from home.
© Brian Fewster,
Published in Staple, Winter 1999
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