When the sun wasn’t watching

the north wind punched me with its stormy knuckles.
I stumbled through a puddle near Wandsworth
that made me incoherently drunk,
and out of a pocket of my soul
marbles of grief scattered across the afternoon.

On a telephone plugged to nowhere,
I picked up each episode:
the excised tumour that began my limp,
splinters and the smell of burglars,
the race across the globe to beat Death to my grandpa's hospital,
a collision with my sister's torment,
friendships to interrupt,
and the bus mirror that scraped out my hairs.

I lost the connection
in a musical implosion
after the day snapped its fingers.
Who would've listened to me as I sought my lost guitar,
knocking over strange reflections as
my songs and I staggered through the night.
When I found the safety of my mattress
I had more bruises for company.

With a click of the curtains,
another morning attempted to welcome me.
Yet she did not welcome me with any smile,
weary from the troubles my collection
of grief continues to trail into the flat.
I pulled them from my pocket to explain
like lollies stolen from the harsh shopkeeper
but she was itemising my mismanagement of
time and space relative to friends.

I wondered if sleep should sweep me away again,
but instead I pocketed my marbles silently and
enjoyed the sun's attention on my face,
even when I noticed that north wind
sparring with the elms in the street.