He had risen not unusually for a week day or weekend afternoon
– the sun chased the moon between the clouds;
both shimmering in the tree boughs, like matinées (before the talkies);
the hanging rain, the red puddles of leaves in the street –
but he found himself wondering again as he shaved,
smearing a clearing in the glass, if today
would be, perhaps, his final or penultimate,
lap of the town for some time or ever again.
“A sort of lap of honour, of triumph, of luck.”
He thought he’d mention something like this
at the counter of the shop on the corner,
(purchasing baccy and lucky dip), but he didn’t.
Instead, scratching the daylight with a box of matches; cupping,
he turned his back to the breeze and went in again to The Queen’s,
where he stood a beer, laughing, laid coins down
and walked a cue around the baize, humming,
‘comma, comma, down, dooby doo, down, down.
Comma, comma, down, dooby doo, down, down.’
“Is this a tape or the radio?”
She said she didn’t know.
On Station Road he was about to pass
the barber shop, but popped his head around the door.
“I may not need a trim today or even ever more.”
(The barber held a broom. The mirror held the room)
He nearly held it all together,
but he caught sight of his reflection again.
the humming shit haiku
neil sedaka hums
through the ceiling of the flat
as he vacuums