Jenny Hockey Poetry
Missing People
This is about the balconies
where no-one ever sits out
with a newspaper
and their second slice of toast —
or am I on the wrong bus to spot them,
the people who never sit out,
the crepuscular people who secretly snack
on gnats and moths and wear
some kind of invisibility spray
on offer from Ambre Solaire
which leads me to think
they could already be there,
comfortably sprawled, women showing
their underwear, men checking
the contents of their noses, everyone
sipping G&T, watching
for me on the 83 bus,
hurrying to this week’s rally
about the demise of democracy
and did it ever work
as we hoped, me taking a call
from the friend I forgot, lending my ear,
missing my stop
Pennine Platform, 89, 2021
New Year's Day, Stanage Edge
No-one is running
from the Manchester Road
to Burbage
but us
still in our younger bodies,
thin T-shirts and trainers,
springing from one boulder
to another, balanced
between babies
and a waiting world
of corridors and classrooms,
red wine on a Friday night
to recover.
Out here, only our feet
cutting their sure swathe
through moorland fog.
​
Spelt, 1, Spring 2021
​
How to fall out of love
if the need arises. It might.
Smoke if you don’t already.
It will give you another worry.
Eat what you like. Eat. Swank up
your style. Find an empty car park.
Cry in it. Leave before dark.
Find a shoulder on the bus. Cry on it.
Leave before dark. Confide
in your dog. Confide in any dog.
Believe in clichés and practise
snarling more effectively.
Knit up your grief. Unravel it.
​
The Frogmore Papers, 95, 2020
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