I leave the heavy lifting to the poets

It’s complicated out there today what with the weather using zero as a game so it’s splashy here and solid there and it’s not like we’re kids any more you know.

I set up these little ramps for somebody to jump on. It’s the way I start writing the stories, and seemed to me that was perfect for a kid say ten or eleven to chime in but no takers so maybe this one’s going to be with codgers like the guy down the street with the limp and his three-legged dog like a couple of pirates and I get ready to dig in, surely there’s a dubious past, some wilful blindness, but they walk on by, teetering and charming.

So it’s going to be the war then is it?

It’s going to be cold grey geography and buildings toppling and another mad man but then I notice the Christmas cards still dangling, and that’s either dog shit or it’s from Anna’s boots, the gasping plants, and before you know it I’m digging into corners with a broom, twirling up ancient cobwebs, thinking of a new shade of paint, something wholesome for dinner, anything to stay away from the words.

Because I don’t know how to put them down due to the weight of them. I am a coward still hoping that the girl in the red coat will be saved, the boy on the beach will recover, the baby will wake up.

I am not so very fragile but sometimes I am afraid I will fly into fiction forever.