Jack Forbes
a special kind of ordinary
it’s a good thing, sometimes, to just get in a car
drive out to sea, window down
no music, preferably in summer
when the day is winding up
and the sky’s all brandy and blush
and maybe you’re in love
or maybe you’re heartbroken
it doesn’t matter, what matters is
you’re feeling something
pull you towards this:
open air and empty horizons
a sunset painting people
packing up, heading home
all reeling back from the sands in flocks
like some type of migration
on the strip of carpark facing the water
nestled amongst other cars
that only seem to be full of middle-aged dads
you lean your head back on the headrest
put your elbow on the window
and listen to the waves roll in
like children whispering after bedtime,
and that thing, that feeling, whatever it is
that drove you out here alone
seems to settle as the tide smooths itself
over a broad sheen of sand
in the fashion of cleaning and re-cleaning
your mind repeating and nothing getting solved
no epiphanies – but that’s not the point
there is no winning or losing in this
there’s just the car, holding you and the feeling
the three of you all quiet, having finally stopped
for just a moment to take in a special kind of ordinary
which doesn’t cost anything, doesn’t require
a form, subscription, or interaction
it just is –
no consumption, gain or gimmick
no need to hurry back to a thing
just the edge of the bay curling itself out
shrinking now, in the dim haze of another day
your day, finally done.
5:44am
I’m up.
morning birds cackle
like witches of a dream.
I make a cup of tea in the half-dark.
a mound of dirty dishes
stacked beside the sink
like yesterday’s masterpiece.
light slowly fills the kitchen
and through the window,
a silent plane
tailgates the night.
down the street a car starts,
its headlights slowly blinking on
the way a sleepy cat will open her eyes.
deep blue hallways,
snoozing walls.
I sit in the study and think
of reading;
all the books on the shelf
with their stories and ideas
that the day can’t rob.
I spot my work shirt
hanging on the door handle
like a rag.
the ironboard groans, loudly, terribly
when I pull out his legs
and stand him up.
as if he doesn’t want to start work.
same, man.
same.
