Ballad of the Hanging Parcel
Took a lead weight in tissue white,
Stole out my window, scaled a great height.
Hung by a thread from the guttering,
When the morning came it was still swinging –
A gleaming rock, string vaguely glittering.
Beacause I’d learnt about mass,
plumb lines hurtling down straight, in school.
Familiar with the terms but not the way it looked all boxed up in freight.
Skipping home in the afternoon,
Existing still, satisfying and cool.
Lay quiet in state with Katie proclaiming it a miracle.
‘It came out of nowhere’ I cried and she half-knowing I’d lied,
it was just a way – a mighty fine way – it was just our way.
Now I’m pacing on the balcony,
like a father in waiting to be -
a tank-bound fish, that pendulum swish,
dreaming of when our next run-in will be.
There’s an Indian wedding down on the street and
a little boy’s fallen asleep on the landing,
safe from the knowledge that he’ll have a hand in, and
but for all the hands with no candles in, and
the look on your face in the darkening, and
the way it’s still figuring,
it’s just a way – a mighty fine way – it’s just a way to sit out the wait.
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