“Nothing, like something, happens anywhere.”
—Philip Larkin, ‘I Remember, I Remember’
A needle in my foot reminds me of being thrown
into some water, under a bus, at least
how I could feel the tyres—the air—as I leapt up
at your early night shifting, made easy
for me to lie on this table and float in a lake
at the same time. “Mate—
what the fuck you going on about? As if
there ain’t a school bus in there: Moxy swam down to it once!”
Three years later he killed himself. I hadn’t thought of that for years either.
He massages my cheek and my mood starts to Michael Fish.
I should probably get some bread and ice cream in for tonight
for this, I think, I say, “Are you touching my right arm?” He jokes
about his mind doing it, but he doesn’t know, that I know, what he’s thinking
or where I’ve been just now suddenly there’s so many things
going on for me all the time. I don’t know how I’m here.
I don’t know why he isn’t. I only thought about it as
I’m on the bus with someone just like him instead I believe I am thinking. “But I didn’t ask
where you’re from,” she says—a shame because
he was cool: she switches seats. I can feel
the ice cream melting in my bag I’m sure it was Moxy’s
birthday last week? We spoke about our dads once.
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