SMALL CASUALITIES OF WAR

	Nineteen forty. The poet laments
	Small casualties of war:
	Queues for bread, sugar and salt.
	New Millennium. I watch on TV 
	A rolling news pictures show-
 
	A boy crouches with his dad
	Pinned against a pock-marked wall
	In a corner of a shantytown lane.
	He clutches his father’s vest.
	Then his fingers slacken
	And slither down to the ground.
	Shots ring round; ricochet.
	Army sharpshooters reload.
	
	A man staggers from the dust cloud
	Pouring, swirling and wrapping
	The city’s skyscrapers still standing.
	He wipes the blood from his face
	And struggles for a breath
	In the Paramedic’s embrace.
	On her mobile a woman stutters-
	Her husband listens- I love you,
	As his Answer phone repeats.

	Giant silver birds excrete ‘Daisy-cutters’
	And foul the dusty earth below.
	Distant thunder resounds the mountains,
	Giant mushrooms spew up, and then collapse.
	Children play, squat and huddle
	And lick the last of the chocolate flakes
	From their dirt-smeared fingers-
	Chocolates that rained from the sky
	In neat parcels whose yellow shells
	Guaranteed not to explode.

	I switch channels but those pictures
	Queue up and fill my small screen.



		A MOLE


	On the train journey back home
	Your eyes focus on me. You say
	That spot on your face seems bigger.
	Nothing but a molehill, I joke.
	
	We snug close in our aeroplane seats.
	Your heart beats faster than mine.
	I breathe in your perfumed skin
	And promise to ring my medic.

	We talk about our long day:
	The rush on the Underground,
	Watery taste of expensive coffee
	At the British Museum cafι.

	How I lost you at the Library
	As you poured over an original ms
	Of Romeo & Juliet while I skipped
	From room to room and roamed free.
 
	We had five minutes to spare
	At King’s Cross. We swallowed our breath.
	From the trolley you chose cheese and ham,
	I was ready for a can of beer.

	Next day we chat on the phone.
	Exchange e-mails, plan weekends ahead.
	Somehow your dates are pre-booked.
	I go for a walk on my own.

	Now every morning I shave
	I feel this pigmented aggregate.

	A mole burrows blindly to save
	Its life. Mine dims like a moon in shade.


		NUMBERS

	999 calls brought in three Cardiac Arrests.
	GPs have to be told of the deaths.
	In my office I pick up the case notes
	And read the names and note their age:
	70, 60 and 35. My eyes halt on the last.

	The first doctor I ring isn't surprised.
	He was half-expecting the news.
	Angina, heart-bypass. Just marking time.

	The 60-year-old had started to mobilise.
	Her fractured leg was just out of cast. 
	Must be a dislodged blood clot -
	Pulmonary Embolism, we speculate.

	I pause before making the third call.
	‘Found hanged.’ Paramedics thumped,
	And shocked his chest. But his heart refused 
	To start like the engine of a burnt-out car.
	On Prozac, and doing well.
	I kept seeing the circling grey mark,
	A coiled snake round his neck. 

	Dusk rolls on to merge with the night.
	I switch on my car lights and head home
	Through near empty streets.
	Speedometer needle swings as I gather speed.
	Thirty-five.  Sixty.  Seventy.



		A BANANA A DAY


	You buy a bunch of bananas
	and say, ‘we’re now on a fruit diet.’

	There’re five, sporting their yellow skin
	smooth as the tulip you’d planted.

	You pull and tear one from the stem, 
	then half-peel, slowly undressing

	The soft solid top and hand it to me. 
	I take a bite. My tongue plays

	with the fragment, probing
	and licking its slippery sweetness.

	Your fasten your lips to restrain 
	your mouth from spilling out.

	‘I’1l eat mine later.’ You slip in and out 
	of the bathroom where the scale

	seems to take up a lot of space.
	You buy a new frock. I struggle with my belt.

	One day you faint. Coming round you gaze 
	at the paramedics’ florescent coat.

	Doctors weigh you. ‘You’ve to put on weight.’ 
	The dietician brings in mouth-watering lists.

	‘Can I have my favourite daily ration?’
	 ‘Yes, but only if you promise to eat it.’