The Journey to Me

‘The city nothing but rooftops!’ you’d say
So we’d walk to the country,
collect litter from the hillside,
laughing like flower children.

You believed in anarchy. I did too.
We picked daffodils in public places.
Sat up all night talking of aesthetics, music, life.

You said, ‘all property is theft.
Employment’s for idlers.’
I helped fund your appeals,
understood when you needed
a little something to help you sleep.

Before long you could not see
beauty without substance.
We’d rush to the country
but see nothing but hedge tops
and a pit-stop for refreshment
before the dark jaunt home.

Our concurrent lives unsynchronized.
When the police called regarding
a naked man at the window,
I concealed the mescaline
on the mantelpiece.

The night you saw
God behind a cushion
signified the end.

Vitamin injections were painful.
So we’d walk the grounds
to find a secluded spot
for your self indulgence.

Doctors asked why I stayed.
They weren’t to know
I’d never been alone.
That I was a stranger,
to everyone but you.