Legacies by Saul

[cameron]

are nothing more than boundary lines
waiting to be trespassed,

a motorway hardened, port bound
lorry driver's dream, to cruise

through New York in a yellow cab,
or boat trips around the Hebrides.

Legacies are pub brawls
spilling out into the street,
swallowing anything not stolen

strapped down or dead,
caving with a handful of tealights,

departure lounge delays
because the pilot's lost his wallet.

Legacies are suicide bombers
working night shifts
as security guards,

super eight footage of yourself
carried on your Father's shoulders.

Or how about the demolition
of inner city tower blocks,

lie-ins at the weekend listening
to your lover breathing in the dark,

then making love with your hands
behind your back.

Legacies are nothing more than
places to be seated
on discarded furniture

at somebody else's dinner table,
shirts pierced on sharp steel fencing,

their limp arms flapping in a wind
that rattles through abandoned offices.

Nothing more than accidents
waiting for something to happen.

We should keep them to ourselves,
then the wasted hours will slowly

disappear, and what will grow
is our fascination.