None of Them

Picture me –

Amid this turn-taking

Game of random leaders:

Faithless ivory-faced kings,

Holy-roller board extremists,

Sword-wielders in minute-man keeps –

Balancing , desperately on the edge

Of a dangerously spinning wheel,

Waiting for somebody, anybody –

Even the one-eyed queen of reds –

To draw the sanity-humanity card.

But once again, and everywhere I look,

There are only jokers, brokers,

Trapped, frustrated pawns and

 Grim-black suits that hunt in packs. 

Luck may wear six faces:

But none of them is mine.

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Across the Water

Man hangs, happily distracted,

From a dream of smoke.

In another world; his

Friend is at one end

Of a fight-tense line.

Between them a woman whose

Skeleton is a charity-shop stool frame.

Across the smooth water

A thin stick holds up a man.

Me? I’m here; balancing unsteadily

On a reflection that shifts and

Cannot possibly be me

I’m not that colour, I’m not

That rigid, that tired, don’t

Look as old as the water

So faithlessly shows.