I could have died last week.
I could have smelt my last burnt toast,
tasted my last orange. I could have.
Before I lost consciousness
I wondered if swallowing pills
would be the last thing I would do.
It was all over again, you see,
and I didn't care what happened next.
I wonder what a last night should feel like?
Just another stretch of darkness before the darkness,
or a slow, star-filled in-gathering
as time comes into its final alignment?
I remember staring at my feet sticking out
as I leant back against the door,
and watching the spilt bottle roll back and forth.
And hearing a train roar carelessly through the station.
10 August 2008
This poem won First Prize in the Poetry Section of the Blue Fringe Literature Awards for 2009.