Should I remove the large old, oblique screwdriver from
Your father’s heavy, grey toolbox – you know, the one,
That Celia used to stand on in fetching up your bottle,
Not so cleverly camouflaged amongst the cluttered mottle.
Would you, I bring the hammer as well; now gently hanging
Nearby, along the peg wall where Timmy stood and sang his
Nursery songs, or rhymes, whatever – we always said his wailing
Helped to drown the argued shouts of a love’s slow failing.
Could I take them both weightily in hand and, turning back, ascend
The cellar steps, a clunk-a clunk, you knew the sound of them.
To find you laying stoic there, empty bottle glinting,
In sick reflection of t.v. screen, the violent end is hinting.
And driving spike of angry indignation through your putrid bosom,
I wonder if you’d simply smile and hold the bloodied prism,
Somehow at last your penance feel, your own confessional,
And free at once the both of us from such a living hell.