Martin Sonenberg
Sid falling
Perched on great stilts constantly growing,
You advance along the difficult summit
Of your seventy-six years.
From trembling altitudes,
Head through clouds, you reach out
To clutch at cunning visions.
Black girls, jugglers, acrobats gyrate
Through the high aviaries of your skull;
Sid, they are flowers on the wall,
Two chintz cushions on your eiderdown,
A broken vacuum-cleaner,
A half-eaten bread roll in the kitchen.
Spurning pills and panaceas,
You teeter on spindled shanks,
Ungainly through the streets of Stoke Newington
Till, lost among dragons,
Fleeing some wartime penitentiary,
Giddy and haloed with years,
Suddenly, you fall.
Page(s) 72-73
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