BRAUTIGAN ON YOUTUBE
in an interview
of feeling blessed.
But look close.
As he talks,
big sighs up
from a deep
and makes plans
with his Magnum.
274, HAWTHORN DRIVE
Lonely today, feeling cut adrift,
like an astronaut floating in silent space,
I thought about Ipswich, where I was born,
and the house I drew my first breath in.
Middleton Close, no. 10 precisely.
I looked for my home on Google Maps
and found it’s just around the corner
from Hawthorn Drive, where my grandad lived.
We spent so many summers there,
his laughter echoing around the house,
his Brylcreem on the windowsill
in the bathroom beside a glass a teeth,
the steel plate in his right shin, and
the way it stuck out underneath the skin;
he used to lift his trouser leg,
making us scream and run away,
much to our grandma’s disapproval.
Grandma was the stern one.
Her parenting was quite Victorian.
It’s strangely charming, in my autumn years,
to find out Mum, after she escaped
her struggles with that cruel woman,
came home to be in touching distance
of her father, who she doted on
in the weeks before she gave birth
to another Tractor Boy.
SOME HIGH SCHOOL
As the light fades slowly
on the street outside,
this kid sits apart
from a group of children,
stroking a plastic rifle’s stock,
some high school on the tv news.
Bruce Hodder’s poetry has recently appeared in Crossroads, Best Poetry, Medusa’s Kitchen and Under the Bleachers. This year his collection The Journey Home was published by Whiskey City Press. He lives in Northampton, England with his wife Michelle.