Sylvie Hill

Magnificent Thunder

The way you needed a woman like a hole in your head
was attractive. The on-again, off-again thing, many in your bed
probably not so much; but, meh, I got it.

When you’d go to the cinema: Whirld and Everyman, and tell me about it:
“You can drink wine!” you’d say without exclamation
and on a quiet Saturday, rainy, in London.

Your vulnerability, I think, was pronounced behind the vindictiveness.
Yet you weren’t sappy, or sloppy, and could always admit
that we all get a little lonely sometime, and you missed it.

And the way you couldn’t be arsed! Nor gave a toss.
Yet you gave the girl your number, you hoped she’d call.
But you were not desperate in your attempts: a dick, and a gentleman.

Self-described miserable old bastard, who could not be bothered!
Yet go on, you wanted happiness, and maybe in search of Her.
You’re so loved, so connected, privileged, and on offer.

The way you were always there and how you bent over backward.
How we connected a long time ago and then it all fell apart.
How you opened a café on the water just like Marker…

Your perseverance chasing tails or blue sky dreams and abundance.
Your impressive character cruel and so kind, and all your meaty substance.
Can never be undone with all the stories told in retrospective…

When you sleep at night
Does your head wander right
Over to your London times of freak and wonder
The one-shot deals and the magnificent thunder?

Sylvie Hill
November 2018