Sunday, 3 May 2015

When the bleeps are through.

Too early to phone them, the sun not yet up
The tired, young man stirred the tea in his cup
And rubbed at his chin as he zipped up the bag
Then popped out the back to sneak a quick fag
Where he smiled as he stared at the same sky me and you
Slept under, and watched black fading to blue

He looked at his watch for the tenth time that hour
And tutted and yawned and then hopped in the shower
He sang happy songs too loud and off key
As he applied anti-perspirant while taking a wee
Then, having twice checked he had all he'd come for
He picked up his phone and stepped out of the door

"Hello," came the voice from the phone in his hand
"We're not in right now, call back if you can"
He tutted and smiled, he should've known
At five in the morning, who answers their phone?
He left them a message and set on his way
On that fresh, early morning of that perfect day

The red bulb he'd ignored now wouldn't go off
And not quite half way there the car coughed a small cough
It spluttered and juddered and rolled down the hill
Still smiling he coasted along and until
He arrived at the pump of the handily placed
Texaco station, a grin on his face.

The best ever day and nothing could spoil it
He filled up the tank and opened his wallet
And paid for his fuel and for chocolate and water
And a little pink Teddy to give his new daughter
Crossing the forecourt toward his car
He yawned a huge yawn and ate a Mars bar

Seven missed calls while he'd been in the shop
Choosing a Teddy and perusing the pop
The phone that he'd left, in the car on the floor,
Flashed it's red light as he opened the door
He settled down and plucked it up
And dialed back, but alas no luck

Three times he tried, three times call failed
A second time he left voice mail
Then on his way, his head in a whirl
To go and fetch his favourite girls
From hospital to home where they
Would share with him this perfect day

On with the journey, a mile or two more
The phone started vibrating and dropped to the floor
And eighth call from Dad, he knew that he should
Leave it to ring and call back when he could
But just this once he took the call
A second or two before hitting the wall

The flowers are wilting, as wilt flowers will
When leant by a wall on the brow of a hill
Bright inks on the cards bearing messages of love
Have faded to pastels now, bleached from above
And tucked away, hidden, behind flowers long dead
A soggy, pink teddy sits bowing his head


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