Something Going On
by John Whitworth
Invisible as angels, or as air,
The little gods descend.
So many deities assembled there
Should mean one special friend
For me. But the runes don't say. It isn't fair.
I work for what I spend.
There's something going on. You can feel it.
You won't find any family anywhere
Possessed of better karma.
I should have been a billionaire, I swear.
That's why I'm such a charmer,
That's why I sprinkle snake oil on my hair
And polish up my armour.
There's something going on. You can feel it.
Fond follies of the heart? We've had our share.
I swear we never planned 'em.
The guilt was generally assuaged by prayer.
I recollect at random
Grandmother's trysts with Walter de la Mare
By moonlight on a tandem.
There's something going on. You can feel it.
It's not the getting, it's the aftercare
That bleeds you to a husk,
The turnkey hunched behind the portiere,
His saturnine subfusc,
The bat, the beetle and the disrepair,
The everlasting dusk.
There's something going on. You can feel it.
Last evening as I climbed the winding stair
To greet the waning moon,
Read half a dozen pages of Flaubert
And sucked my silver spoon,
I counted seven stalking the parterre.
I know it will be soon.
There's something going on. You can feel it.