The Delivery
I am driving slowly to your place –
well under the national speed limit
because there is no more rush
to arrive – to park up – to be there –
I am returning with the fourth nail
which a poor blacksmith forged
for a death and his condemnation –
but I cannot deliver it now
I step from the car with less art
because I no longer bear my weight
without a graceless poke of a stick
combined with planned landings
‘The sharpest will pierce his lung’
his feinting mother was told
of those tempered metal pins –
one of which I now hold