on the mattress of fate

the vacuum cleaner sucks the day
from a swathe of grey carpet tiles,
and in the narrow slice of daylight
between dark stores of dubious goods,
the damp and spotty bedding
of some body's fate
stands propped
beside the sign
that reads:
DO NOT LEAVE YOUR RUBBISH HERE,
PUT IT ON THE STREET

and I think of a house
eight hundred miles
and fifteen years from here,
where one night I was visited
by the little bittersweet phantom
who had helped me make that first death-crack
in the shiny, woody hardness
of the conker
of my heart;

silent,
we rolled on a flat mattress,

and
I will never know
why her insinuating hand
ghosted, unbidden,
to the hardness
of the hotness
of my prick,

and
I will never know
why her slim fingers'
quiet enquiry
was ended, suddenly,
in a noisy rage of slurs,
and in the dramatic crashing
of the garden gate.

when I had my one chance to ask about it,
a lifetime later
in a hotel bar
and in the here-and-now...
well, I think I saw
that no good could come
from finding out.