Jackshite Days.

She would have those days
When the whole thing wasn’t
Worth the drawing of curtains
Or blinds; wasn’t worth turning
Over in bed to see the time on
The clock perched on the bedside
Table; wasn’t worth jackshite
To wake up in the depressing
Night awaiting the crack of dawn.

She would listen to the chorus of birds,
The beginning of traffic on the nearby
Motorway, the kids next door waking up,
Crying or playing around, creating
Sound where once there was silence.

She would have those hours where
Darkness gathered like black dogs
Barking; have those minutes where
The ticks kept ticking from clocks
Like drips from a tap, have those
Seconds like splinters under the skin,
Have drawn out depressions like
Dark maggots gnawing within.

She would have those ghostly holds,
Those phantom kisses on her baby’s
Dead head, those cold caresses beneath
The sheets, where numb night
And chill light of dawn meets
Memories of him away, across
Chosen battlefields, some far
Off war, not with her and her loss,
Nor an answer to her what it was for.