tea poem

On a come down you were so sweet and kind
Drip Drop honey on my soul.

Sleep scattered eyes with crumble corners in early mornings
you cupped your hands around my heart and squeezed with quicken beats.
But not too quick like coffee caffeine hits.

Crisis slams ugly punches on my chest so I clutch you
stand with you. Suck life from you.

Between pages You're with me.
Tea

I talk over your steam about healing
feelings.

Smoke cigarettes and laugh-not with you-near you.
But tea, you're always there.

Recharge from your hot breath
pumping and warmth like bath tubs after storms.

Tea.
I'm sure I owe you a slither of my sanity.
If I had any.
Instead you have this poem from me. 

I wanted to say something

I sit on the step at the front of my house and smoke a cigarette, midday emptiness, peaceful. I sip my tea and flick through Facebook. On my newsfeed is a rash of Labour red, in my social media bubble I am squishy and warm with hope that all might be fixed.

I watch a man who staggers up the road with sticky fag rolling fingers. Fumbling curly tobacco.

In the window next to me, I have blue tacked my media bubble- ‘vote Labour.’

He stops and sways.

‘Are you voting Labour?’ Squinty, eyeballed, stutter.

‘Yes.’ I answer.

He rocks on roller-skate soles. Wriggly insides trying to be stabled.

‘What about the fucking immigrants?’ Gurgling mumble. I am silent. ‘That one at number ten’s a bitch.’

‘Yes, she’s not very nice.’ I try and reply.

‘David Cameron was alright. With that security he had.’

I sort of hum, because I don’t know what to say.

‘What do you think of it all?’ He asks.

‘I think, it’s really scary.’ He doesn’t think I mean what I really mean so his smile is met with my creased forehead.

Something invisible and solid falls between us.

He stops, I wait. I want him to leave, I don’t feel safe.

In his drunken eyes, I see mine from sometimes last year or the year before.

He sprinkles more tobacco on the floor.

‘You haven’t got a vape then?’

‘No.’ I say.

He mumbles, heavy haze and walks away.

I should have said more, something else, something stronger.

Behind my screen I can talk high and strong and brave and power. But face to face, when it really matters I crumble. And I think that is exactly where they want us to be.    

I wonder, has anyone been changed by a tweet or a poster, or is it just for our own self-righteous satisfaction? Aren’t we all so solid in our views?  

My sponsor arrives. When she leaves, I think of the man who past my step on the street, broken by a need that might kill him. In a world that won’t heal him.