The cheque arrived

like mail to the wrong address.

(No-one of those dollars lives here.)

Paying the mortgage

you expect whistles and bells

(or at least the screen to play “We’re In The Money”)

but it doesn’t blink.

A teller’s smile seems less than adequate.

Walking into a home you now own,

nothing has changed.

Where is solidity exuded at these times?

Who does the ceremonial laying on of hands

to the newly entitled?

Is playing the game reward unto itself?

You leave what’s left be rolled over

and it all rolls over you

and you leave the faintest of imprints on the roadway.

You gathered with all your workmates for farewells

(was that all, it seemed more!)

and yes, they hated to see you go

and not them.

And in two weeks

your gossip is hopelessly out of date,

your opinions are ill-informed,

your phone-calls are left on hold

and then not returned.

You have de-constructed.

You have exchanged piscatorial irrelevance

in a leaking pond

for lone voyaging

on a diluted sea of possibilities.

So you write.

You write more,

you write less,

you write, more or less,

until you are writely alone.

And isn’t this how you always wanted it to be?

Undisputed master of your destiny?

But

who do you blame now?