Sunday, 23 August 2015

Sunday Poem


I am all that is wrong with the Old World,
and half of what troubles the New.

I have not seen Spain or the Philippines,
Holland or Indonesia. In the other room,

my grandfather nods off in front
of Wheel of Fortune. I have seen his Japan

in photos—the last good suit he wore,
grey, tailored in Kyushu. Believe

Pat Sajak is a saviour: he divines new riches
like water hidden from a dowser’s

willow switch, trembling through
unfamiliar territories, proffered

like a makeshift cross. The same strange
faith should be proof enough

of my current crisis. There was a game
we once played. I’m in it now.

The wheel turns, strobes its starlight
across another centrifuge, that spinning globe,

a kid’s finger skimming its surface,
waiting for it to stop. This is where I’ll live.

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