Small Addictions
“Small Addictions”
bit by bit
the hunger begins,
the time when everyone,
it would seem, is giving in
to those small addictions
inevitably they become
your sole purpose for living,
your entire self turned inside out,
those small addictions
inevitably grow
they leave you on your own,
vacant of purpose, tank on empty,
considering the cycle of things,
the vagueries of a life,
it would seem, eternal, on repeat,
for wasn’t that the place
where the small addictions
left him, sitting on the back steps
quietly contemplating, each dark night,
sucking on his Erinmore, like a child,
an adult,
chewing on his pipe,
considering the inconsiderate
larger scheme of things, double entry,
questioning the trial balance, of a life
where he once was,
the smaller addiction,
disgarded toxin, relegated
to an army home with their strange
staunch jangling tambourines
with the others, lost
small addictions
seen but never to be heard,
the begotten forgotten, still waiting
for the collection, small addictions
children passing the plate, forever
waiting, warily watching,
the joyfully worn false dispositions
of the strange others'
terrible, hidden,
abnormal
addictions;
a pew away from it all
seated on the sidelines
seated still, seen but not heard
segueing with military precision
to the welcome routine, his mission
with his small anglican addictions
1, 2, 3, in all, kneeling benedictions
on the hard surface of it all
missing the 4th always there
never seen, yet still heard
morning prayers for mourning,
the Sunday joi de vie, of it all,
a church full of Glennie
reprobates and loose arabs
one and all
“Thurday’s Evensong!”,
he admonishes jovially
during the return drive, while
they argue little bigger things
in the back seat of the old Austin,
on the way home
running up the stairs,
following the procession of harridans,
those loud rambucious terrors, he laughs
and shakes his head, left alone with it all, he yells,
slamming the safety screen, with a terse scowl,
“home is not a tent!
close the ruddy door!!!”
listening, then debating
rivetting conversations
round table over a hot pie,
steak n kidney, quartered
into 4, with his most adored
small addictions,
daughters
now again seated
for the time being
orderley and well behaved
by the side of him, copies repeating
poetic verses, miniature white prayer books
the hymns loud and off-key
never up for debating
sacrifice and largesse
two very separate things
atonement, the plate is passed
each small addiction
in a straight line, now before him
concentrating, most sincerely,
the etiquette and history
of tying Windsor knots
ne’er a noose
around a man's neck
ironing shirts and school blazers
packed lunches, found days later
ne'er eaten, buried underneath the house
small addictions
concentrating on the larger external,
questioning internal things, the purpose
of everything, awake and listening
to him, every now and then,
he wonders, if at all
they’ll remember
what he’s said,
take it all in, if it’s enough
to feed his small addictions
avidly open to better futures
seated with him
on the side lines,
listening perplexed
to the good reverend’s sermon
blood and water,
seen but never heard
1,2,3 and a promise to the
too swift departure, kept
with 4, in her gentle words
he and his small addictions
blood and water
seen but never heard
(LadyLabyrinth / 2023)
vcb, ljb
llb, klb, mlb
"blood is thicker than water..."
Copyright ©
Lady Labyrinth
|