Poem Hunter
Mr Bleaney
SD (9/22/93 / florida)

Mr Bleaney

'This was Mr Bleaney's room. He stayed
The whole time he was at the Bodies, till
They moved him.' Flowered curtains, thin and frayed,
Fall to within five inches of the sill,

Whose window shows a strip of building land,
Tussocky, littered. 'Mr Bleaney took
My bit of garden properly in hand.'
Bed, upright chair, sixty-watt bulb, no hook

Behind the door, no room for books or bags -
'I'll take it.' So it happens that I lie
Where Mr Bleaney lay, and stub my fags
On the same saucer-souvenir, and try

Stuffing my ears with cotton-wool, to drown
The jabbering set he egged her on to buy.
I know his habits - what time he came down,
His preference for sauce to gravy, why

He kept on plugging at the four aways -
Likewise their yearly frame: the Frinton folk
Who put him up for summer holidays,
And Christmas at his sister's house in Stoke.

But if he stood and watched the frigid wind
Tousling the clouds, lay on the fusty bed
Telling himself that this was home, and grinned,
And shivered, without shaking off the dread

That how we live measures our own nature,
And at his age having no more to show
Than one hired box should make him pretty sure
He warranted no better, I don't know.

User Rating: 4,1 / 5 ( 8 votes ) 3

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Comments (3)

Delightful poem, Styles!
Thinking that thought that you thought all day praying it won't go away, still smiling at the sky, sunshine, never a cloud on your mind...........nice one to be remembered all the times.....10 read mine... as i enter......child.....
I love your poem about childhood. On the first line second verse surprise is spelled wrong. You have done a terrific job and I hope that you will continue to write about things people like to read about. Good Job. Your friend Lynn