Poetry Magazines - The best collection of poetry magazines online - Simon Armitage

I stare out the window into
wind and night and sea all tossed together.
I felt on edge as Patterson continued
talking. The phone was getting heavy.
Yes, I said in a slow monotone.
I changed hands to improve circulation.
He went on about how his third wife left him.
Not even a note.
‘Yeah, they do that,’ I said,
‘let me get this straight
she left you — for someone...a stranger?’
‘No, not a stranger.’
‘Then who?’
‘A janitor.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah, really.
She met the janitor in the women’s toilet,’ he said.
I reflect on this for a minute.

‘So,’ he continued on the phone,
‘I had some drinks — a pack of Marlboros
& got on the Cell with my attorney.’
‘What did he say?’ I ask.
‘There is no such thing as spiritual bankruptcy.
He told me to try for Chapter Eleven.’
‘Yes,’ I said slowly and absently.
I was remembering how he used to weasel art majors
out of their clothes. Some were married.
He would have his way with them
in the faculty toilet.
I wasn’t exactly sure what the connection was —
retribution — some great wheel turning.

The wind rattles the window.
I stare out and down my window’s square of light.
It reflects faintly on the sandy beach below.
‘My paintings trickled down to nothing.’
He went on talking about

men’s groups, primal screams,
beating drums & ancient blood songs
but mainly it was the young unsatisfied wife,
it was all too much he said.

I was still at the window,
wondering how the fish in the water below
apprehended my apartment window’s light.
‘Are you listening?’
‘Yes. I am listening.’
I decided they didn’t understand it at all.