Listener. Lemn Sissay

your heart, mine won’t beat but burn

      Delete Delete Delete Return.

       ELEPHANT IN THE ROOM

       It isn’t what’s said, it’s what’s not said

      What says it all.

      The day you brought it home

      I’ll never forget.

      It was only seven foot tall then.

      An elephant! I said.

      Put it in the back yard.

      Fine, you said, Fine!

      And disgruntled

      Tied it to the washing line.

      As you slept I’d pull back the curtains

      Stand by the window and watch it.

      A dark shadow. An iceberg. A hump filled the back yard,

      Rising and falling with each deep gentle snore.

      Breakfasts were never the same again.

      The elephant took up all the space

      And had no table manners whatsoever,

      Although it was useful for the washing-up.

      Whenever I broached the subject

      You’d rant and rave and fume,

      Say I was going crazy, There is no elephant in the room.

      But the saddest thing is not the crockery it smashed

      Nor the walls it demolished, of our past.

      It wasn’t its footsteps stamped all over our home,

      The cracked floorboards or its wont to roam.

      It was the lie established after I said, It’s there.

      For years you looked at me and said, Where, dear, where?

       ARCHITECTURE

      Each cloud wants to be a storm

      My tap water wants to be a river

      Each match wants to be an explosive

      Each reflection wants to be real

      Each joker wants to be a comedian

      Each breeze wants to be a hurricane

      Each drizzled rain wants to be torrential

      Each laugh from the throat wants to burst from the belly

      Each yawn wants to hug the sky

      Each kiss wants to penetrate

      Each handshake wants to be a warm embrace.

      Don’t you see how close we are to crashes and confusion,

      Tempests and terror, mayhem and madness,

      and all things out of control?

      Each melting ice cube wants to be a glacier

      Each goodbye wants to be the smooth stroke of a forehead

      Each cry wants to be a scream

      Each carefully pressed suit wants to be creased

      Each midnight frost wants to be a snow drift

      Each mother wants to be a friend

      Each night-time wants to strangle the day

      Each wave wants to be tidal

      Each subtext wants to be a title

      Each winter wants to be the big freeze

      Each summer wants to be a drought

      Each polite disagreement wants to be a vicious denial

      Each diplomatic smile wants to be a one-fingered tribute

      to tact.

      Don’t you see how close we are to crashes and confusion,

      Tempests and terror, mayhem and madness,

      and all things out of control?

      Keep telling yourself.

      You’ve got it covered.