The Border

Should we care
that a man was held
upon re-entry
to Trump’s citadel?

A real American,
Muhammed Ali’s son,
stopped at the border
for his religion:

Detained for beliefs,
for his father’s choice,
once the loudest,
most American voice.

The Storm

There, feel suspicion
shifting, with 
the volute of winds,
drilled, air-cracked,
this wooden floor,
almost set lifting,
with me tied-to,
in Ulysses contract,
waiting upon
a messenger’s distract:
A low across
my nervous squall,
you, my storm,
could destroy this all.

And I shall sleep
through falling trees,
as I did once before,
in another place,
where I was split,
felled to my knees
by a lover, me, cut,
redundant, disgraced
by her mis-order,
my love misplaced,
becalmed upon
her blunted bent:
I descended Leith Hill,
the storm then spent.


Parents (sic) Evening

I return to my schooling
over parquet flooring,
in repeats of bruised corridors,
between their mending places,
but now to hear about bug fixes
and performance improvement.

This Parents Evening of the lost,
(always missing an apostrophe?),
in a maze worthy of Daedalus,
where hard logarithms rule
my expanding distance from kids:
I compare and contrast –

no more cradle-to-cane
as we follow our children,
from report to report,
from people young enough..
and that overload returns –
I still misuse my apostrophe’s.