Solo. Poem by Alistair Plint

The hail beats the tin roof of this old house
like a previous century stoning
the ice crashing on the corrugated steel
is reminiscent of a
Rick Allen solo
The idiot in me keeps looking up
as if the steel pressed ceiling is taking the beating
The angle these golf ball icicles are coming at
concerns the large glass window panes
they look like they'll shake themselves
into cracks of disaster across
the wooden floor boards

I fold myself into a ball
on the leather couch
covered in last nights jacket
and comforted by my latest Amazon acquisition
"Mockingbird Wish Me Luck"
I suffer the noise to read magnificence
then realise
this house echoes without you

It's been far to long, I need you
just to sit here and say nothing
just to be here and touch
just to make this book worth reading
I find the poem
the poem I wanted to read, the one
"Girl in a miniskirt reading the bible"
that poem

As I edge into the page
I realise I don't remember what earrings you wear,
how many gold bangles rest on your arm
or how long your legs are
I realise
that you don't move to my symphony
move to my rhythm
and I don't play it for you
I don't play it for you, any longer

You were once my god

[.]