POEMS The Labour of Mrs. Hercules Not having seen seven o'clock in bed For years and a natural light sleeper, She cannot find the time or strength to dread The coming of her fifth child, or weep her Anguish for the other four's grubby hands. The police have been round twice since Christmas Because John, the oldest lad, always lands Himself in trouble. 'Shouldn't see that lass So often,' according to DeidreAnd she has had three of her own grown up Long since. Someone said he ought to see A psychiatrist but the choice was up To John and it was her problem rather Than theirs. She must expect one of the five To be reckless and just like their father Who—although unwelcome now—will arrive In a drunken state eventually. Telling herself that they're not the only Couple who have to sleep separately Reminds her that it can become lonely At nights and the waterpipe needs mending. By the close of another day, those tasks That must still be done seem never ending: She knows why she does them but no one asks.
Ian Rayson
New York, New York Dusk is grey in New York. Light comes slowly, painfully, revealingly. The joggers circle Central Park. The in-crowd have just got home, And Time Square is full of pigeons. The air has no smog, has no noise, has no humidity, yet. Quickly the streets fill: organised, habitual, chaos: Workers going to work, Drinkers going to drink, And the whores on Fifth Avenue are going to bed. Coffee is served: hot, black, sweet; It ends with the traditional: `Have a nice day, y'all.' On the streets below `Don't walk: don't walk' Is spelt out In blood-red neon. The sun hovers above the river— Melting in exhaust fumes. The moon watches the concrete blocks below. Julian Wilson 40
