Deny it how you will, there are times
When, sitting in the car outside the supermarket
You consider suicide
A moment before, you’re scrutinising
The legs of a young mum and the way the breeze plays
Games with her skirt
A child at her foot –
She has a swing to her that hasn’t diminished
Still has a move or two
Then rain spits on the windscreen
Taps on the roof like a tut-tutting busybody who knows
What you’re thinking
A warming light goes out, you reach
For a cigarette in the grey stupor of your driver’s seat
You’re under water
Or drowning in something just as cold
Inhaling, you see it for what it is, a descent, an immersion
You’re heavy as a Victorian diving-suit
Going down. There are times
When you welcome that aqueous, effortless tug, its ease
And wonder why anyone should try to swim.
