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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