The Gut Punch

14 Apr
the gut punch
hollow tickling ache
the chest cavity boxing
the solar plexus
fluttery and breathless

suitcases all packed and stretch out
just for a wee siesta
luxury cruise comps dancing
across the eyelids
the sleepy eyes do not see the wrist
head woozy not screwed on

what! the eyes bug out on stems
thump down the stairs like a madman
while dressing - flag a taxi
shout, gun it!
more money for the driver

run like a gazelle from the taxi to the dock
but the transatlantic liner just embarked
cresting the wave without a passenger
standing alone on the empty pier
staring at the ticket

if only if only echoing eyes wet

driving back home kicking self as a heel
a world-sized fail crushing the back

sitting in the living room bored
disappointment eaten
tuned in the tubed radio

the flash report on every station

titanic sank

3.2 10/10
© Brian Peter Hodgkinson
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Posted by on April 14, 2022 in Poetry


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