Staying In

In Heaven,
they love nothing more
than settling on the sofa
on Saturday night
and watching
a western
starring Leo the Great
convincing Attila the Hun
to stop at the gates of Rome.

The pope is attired
in unblemished white
and the mongol lord
sits astride his stead
as black as sin
and a saddle studded
with rhinestones
as bright as the knucklebones
of the saints.

Some nights, to vary the outcome,
they cheer for the asian king
but keep the lights dimmed
in case St Peter, trawling the streets
like a lost delivery man, fancies
a showdown of his own.

In the morning, wine-bottles
and half-eaten tortillas litter
the clouds and the late-nighters
pretend not to know each-other
or the real ending.

The Lessons

I waited,
As the ad forewarned,
For twenty days
To learn in less
How to dance
The rumba and the salsa,
The tango and the hop.

The mats I laid upon
The floor were arrowed,
Numbered and more like
Movements in how to split
The atom or remove a thorn
From a lions paw.

I practised so much,
at night, the ceiling was
A nest of steeping feet,
As if I had come across
A war party lost
amongst the snow.

Of course, when the time
To dance became real,
The recollection of the tempo
And the hollows and instructions,
Filled my view like the streaks
Of rain across the windscreen
In my car, beating in rhythm,

And the silence between us
Like waiting for a parcel and
Then the sound of what you
Waited for, arriving.