Truth Be Told
You said you met Einstein in a dream,
His wild hair beating chromatic drums,
And he offered you cake and secrets.
Well, I met a girl on a long mountain train
Who studied Jewish history and boxed
To keep those arms taught, that skin
Bright and cliff edged. I stood on plinth,
A moss-ravaged track side, plumed
A casual wave – newspaper under arm
Informing me that baby’s will sleep
Safely tonight. I missed my bus,
As your gods would have it, cold sun
Bouncing up from the valley floor.
A man in yellow shoes brought
To mind that poem you wrote in Paris,
Your Paris, about fields of exploding heads.
I sensed a metaphor regarding mankind,
Humankind, and the consumer demon,
But I just rested a pensive stare
Out of the hotel window. A dark
Haired girl with a Hemingway scowl
Crossed herself at a roadside wreath
A hundred yards up the street. Truth
Be told, I always preferred Spain.
You said smoking was for Spartans,
Revolutionaries or professors of the soul,
Not for wanderers or pale Welshmen.
Two hours late, I noticed the clinic
Spread out like splayed arteries, dug
Venally into the deep baize of the hills.
Rain formed a moat in the brim
Of my hat. The nurse offered donations
From a plastic smile – she brought
To mind that tea-stained photograph
Of your mother as a Wren, made up
In all that cake mixture. I tried,
But I never liked your mother. Love
Would have us believe in an ultimate goal,
You said once, ruining my birthday,
But now I guess it’s better to talk
Than to worry about the words.