In the ghost world the
ghost girl dances her
ghost whirls enlacing me in
veils so seductive I
sometimes pray the
dawn won’t come.
But dawn does come with the
prayer my feet will
find the floor and that the
floor will bear my weight so I
will not start the day
flat on my face.
If there is a God it is coffee-coloured,
perking like heavy breathing, its
consort sizzling in the pan, the
toaster popping its prize with a
sigh like a prayer.
In the mad rush of the studio I
see something, take my chance,
get the set rebuilt and
knowing it will take time
slip out to light my
prayer to creativity.
Shall I make this poem a pun on Sex? But
lunch is when I have a moment to
lust over those who, at work,
I respect, would never dishonour, but
at quiet times imagine
undressed, themselves lustful.
Mid-afternoon is a sigh—no, a
yawn into the vast face of the work we’ve
chiselled all day into something we
pray is vaguely human, vaguely
real, vaguely worth all that
spent time to achieve.
Outside the lamps are lit just as we
switch ours off and head away home
praying all is well with those
work has cut us off from, lit
phone-screens in the car-park evidence of
love, concern and care.
Fed and watered—ok, wined!—I
wend my way to my hotel, call home,
check the news, reply to emails,
clean myself, resign myself to bed
praying the ghost girl will still be
whirling in her ghost world.