DAY FORTY-THREE – Joan Hewitt

Concrete Jungle, Where the Living is Hardest

The night after the election
I saw her through the door of the Tanner’s Arms,
dancing alone to the jukebox.

Darkness has covered my light
and has turned my day into night.

Not young, white shirt, black jeans.
Her eyes were shut. She didn’t
shake her breasts or lank brown hair

and her tight face disowned
the fluid movements of her hips and feet.
I have to say there was a beauty in it.

The men hunched at the bar ignored her.
No sun will shine in my day today.
The high yellow moon won’t come out to play.

Marley started up again as I turned back to the street.

 

 

Joan Hewitt, Tynemouth, retired from EFL university teaching, finds that organising against Austerity from within the People’s Assembly is leeching from time needed to assemble her second collection (the first was entitled Missing the Eclipse (Cinnamon, 2008). Deadlines from anthology editors and the rigorous standards of the Northern Poetry Workshop, chaired by Sean O’Brien, are useful correctives to her state of chassis.

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