Banal

I lived over, and operated a grocery / newsagency for many years. There was a weariness of thought, impressed on my consciousness each morning that helped deflect the slights and hurts of life.  This is the comfort of the banal, in which the working man finds solace.




I twist from the wrinkled embrace of sheets
and allow my feet to touch
gravity settles me. 
Muscle, sinew and bone protest at their return
to the evolved upright state
The time for fruitful hiding
is past.

Pull back the curtains in confirmation
not anticipation,
the world has not ended, and if it had,
how would I face it, without clothes?

The stranger that allowed me to lose some moments,
lies half asleep in the darkened room;
dream trodden eyes await a touch of endearment,
or even recognition,
anything to lessen the isolation.

The action once conceived is past,

and the pulling on of trousers

becomes the brutal erasure

of last night’s shared passion.
I hobble self consciously from the room.

Now is the time, to relish the first hot cup of tea,
infusing its ragged tannins with blue-to-grey
smoke of cigarette;
before the tarry stub has quenched

I light yet another from its remains

and toss the empty packet into the bin,
finally severing all ties with the night before.

Downstairs, the customers come and go,
and I embrace myself against their relentless flow,
as I descend, and pass from need, to othersneed,
 . . .  no space between.

©Niall OConnor 2013

Photograph: Philippe Lopez/AFP/Getty Images