he waddles down his narrow drive
to his dirty front door
fumbles for a few minutes with the key
some people say he is a drunk
others that he has eye problems
maybe both are true
no one has ever asked him
there goes Brian
alone
in his grey anorak
with a tote bag
that has picture of a bird on it
I think it is a finch
small & brown
the kind of bird that’s nameless
Brian pauses at his door
like it might whisper something
—an apology
for the shitty weather
pockets full of bus tickets
small paper wrappers
rolling tobacco and loose filters
we say drunk
as if it explains how he leans into the evenings
as if grief
can be weighed
we say eye problem
as if the problem
isn’t seeing too much
the slow collapse of afternoons
the disintegration of friends
how the years left
without a forwarding address
no one says
there goes Brian
keeper of small flying things
no one says
there goes a man
who has memorised the length of his sorrow
to the nearest centimetre
maybe that birdie bag
isn’t decoration
nor utility
but evidence
that something in him
still believes
in wings
still believes
a small brown life
can rise from wet pavement
over the chimney stack
to be eaten again by the dawn
