‘It’s gone.’
‘What has?’
‘It. This. Everything.’
‘The chair is still here. I’m still here.’
‘I don’t mean the chair. I mean it, it.’
‘You’ve lost me.’
‘That’s not hard.’
‘Try me.’
‘I mean, I mean it’s gone. I really think it’s gone from me this time.’ I pause and look at the book for a moment. ‘The poetry. I’m talking about the poetry.’
”The’ poetry? Why not just say ‘poetry’?’
‘OK. Poetry. I think poetry has left me.’
‘But you don’t really think that, do you, not really, not deep down, not here.’ The book spreads its hand across its stomach, which I notice has become rather swollen.
‘No.’
‘Well, then. Stop complaining. A poem on my desk, by seven tomorrow morning.’
‘But I can’t.’
‘Yes you can.’
‘I can’t.’
‘You can.’
‘Can’t.’
‘You can,’ says the book. ‘And you will.’
Tough love
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Ooohhh that is quite scary ….a little Pinteresque …..sends a shiver down my spine; it is however rather beautiful and lingers in the mind……clever!
Lovely to share this.
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Bless you for saying so Cherry. And thank you for the Pinter ref. I don’t feel I ever shake him off. xx and Love, Ant
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