For now, at least, it has gone.
The notebooks with promising phrases, the backs of envelopes with doodles: they are of no use to you.
A friend rings with news of their triumphs. You are the first to hear. They have chosen you! Isn’t it great?
Pandemonium sweeps through your brain, a wave, not metaphorical, but actual, of heat.
The plop of envelopes on the doormat. Poems returned, magazines of poems, your name not amongst them.
Between the bedcovers you plot.
But first there is this, a snivel, and a shuffle to the shops. In your slippers. In daylight.
Soup, from the tin, barely warm.
(It really has gone).
You wave goodbye to it, the imposter you knew it to be, from the window.
It does not look back at you, in your robe and thermal underwear, toast crumbs dotting your scarf.
It does not even kiss you.
You wonder whose suitcase this is, taking up your hall. It wasn’t there when you last looked.
Anthony Wilson 
These poems don’t disappoint. Love it!
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Thanks Andy, This means a lot xx
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Hi Anthony, I really enjoy your writing and look forward to every new posting.
Sent via my BlackBerry from Vodacom – let your email find you!
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Thank you so much for saying so. I look forward to writing them. I am never sure where I am going.
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Beautiful, Anthony. The details are heart-breakingly perfect. It reminds me a bit of Raymond Carver’s poem, “His Bathrobe Pockets Stuffed with Notes.”
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Such high praise, thank you.
It’s one my favourites of his. Thank you again
Anthony
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Truth has it’s own beauty. A sparkle that has more fire than a multi-faceted, blue diamond. A sweetness that exceeds the perfume of a field of lilium regale. A hunger that is more desperate than a kiss at the corner of lips long sought after.
There’s some of that here and there’s no shame in that.
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It certainly is about hunger, you are absolutely right.
Thank you, as ever
Anthony
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