Stage

He is permanently tense,
Like he used to be before going
On stage, or out to bat,
Putting himself on public display
With the notion of constant failure.

His writing creaks, his hand jags
Too many curves into the letters,
Runs across the page too swiftly,
Too unpredictably for him to control,
The words an illegible mess.

These spiders that dance off the egde
Are the essence of him, overformed,
Half-formed nervous colts that
Won’t ever grow up, and some of
Them fall onto the floor and scurry away.

Perhaps they will come back
When he’s gone, and those left will
Recognise him in them.

R 16/09/2023 13:43