New Poem by Umit Singh Dhuga

Childs Hill

Six months later out of the womb for eight

hours and you're gone. I'm sorry I was late

at Gatwick but I couldn't hit eject

... (our Starman days, they're gone, correct?)

and stop the jet's petrol-blasting taxi

nor advance in the queue for a taxi

with sincere words—"Please, my nephew is dead".

They don't believe me; after all, they've just read

in flight about who fucked who and whether

Rooney's bicycle kick came off his shin

or "he done laced it!" This isn't London

any more but a mobile with a tether

to every other sputtering machine. . .

The casket was painfully light at Golders Green.

London, May 2012

poem by Umit Singh Dhuga, Classics scholar with a PhD from Columbia. He is the founder, publisher, and managing editor of The Battersea Review. Ben Mazer is co-editor.

Comments

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