Surrounded by colour

Cheery red and green wires dance together across the starched white sheets,
exploring the caverns made between the ripples
before separating.


The green smoothly shimmies under the red
and enters through the short sleeve with ease.
It splinters in two, and stops to
listen to the rumba of the heart.


The red tangos to the hand,
it dives, piercing the saggy skin and
is secured safety with itchy white tape.

More wires conga, one after another.
Desperate to touch and listen.

By the time I arrive
you are surrounded by colour.
More wire than man.
You look like you have shrunk.
Grown pale.
You seem old, frail,
helpless.
Not the strong wise man
whose feet I sat at when I was child, eager to hear
tales of strange foreign countries,
wild creatures and warm rain.

I'm thankful for the beat the wires dance to
but I can't help wondering what will happen when it stops.

The Wait

You don’t laugh anymore, I never see you smile.
Your face is pale, your eyes red.
You are getting thinner.
Your clothes hang off you,
balancing delicately on your visible shoulder blades.
You refuse to eat,
it makes you sick.
You count the pills every morning, swallow them
slowly, methodically.
You don’t go outside anymore, you
just stare though the glass, blankly.
Time has slowed and only exists
when it’s time to take the next pill.
You don’t get out of bed anymore, you can’t.
Your dependency makes you feel child-like.
You can only wait.
You don’t long for it
but it seems to be the only answer now. 

The Cardigan

I search beneath the oppressive heavy lid of my trunk.
I see the sleeve poking out towards the bottom,
waving for surrender.

I offer it my hand and pull.
I hold it for a moment, regarding it like a forgotten friend; a stranger.
There is little resistance as I slip it on.

The smell of you is overpowering.

A flash of white teeth and rosy lips, brown scruffy hair.
I feel your arms around me; your warm breath tickles the back of my neck
 as your beautiful mouth whispers things to me.
I remember when we ran through the snow
holding hands,
your laughter echoing for only us to hear.
You put your cardigan round my shoulders, and rubbed my arms
This will keep you warm.

I remember the fights, the tears;
the anger scrunching up your handsome face.
The words that you could never take back resonate through my head.
I remember when you left.
I take it off slowly,
fold it neatly.
Stare at it.

I return it to the trunk,
and close the lid.

I want to forget you, 
but I can't just yet. 

Tuesday 9:00 AM by Denver Butson

Tuesday 9:00 AM

Denver Butson

A man standing at the bus stop
reading the newspaper is on fire
Flames are peeking out
from beneath his collar and cuffs
His shoes have begun to melt

The woman next to him
wants to mention it to him
that he is burning
but she is drowning
Water is everywhere
in her mouth and ears
in her eyes
A stream of water runs
steadily from her blouse

Another woman stands at the bus stop
freezing to death
She tries to stand near the man
who is on fire
to try to melt the icicles
that have formed on her eyelashes
and on her nostrils
to stop her teeth long enough
from chattering to say something
to the woman who is drowning
but the woman who is freezing to death
has trouble moving
with blocks of ice on her feet

It takes the three some time
to board the bus
what with the flames
and water and ice
But when they finally climb the stairs
and take their seats
the driver doesn't even notice
that none of them has paid
because he is tortured
by visions and is wondering
if the man who got off at the last stop
was really being mauled to death
by wild dogs.

from Triptych, 1999
The Commoner Press, New York

Copyright 1999 by Denver Butson.
All rights reserved.

Poem by Neil Gaiman

You Fit Into Me

You Fit Into Me
Margaret Atwood

you fit into me
like a hook into an eye

a fish hook
an open eye 

Today

I feel a little trapped within
a cocoon of self-reflection.

It's lonely in here,
but I'm not ready to break out

yet.