The Swimmer

The Swimmer

Image Credit: Freeimages.com


he cuts the water with imperfect form.

not text book, arms overreach on entry.

without fin or scale he seems

designed to live in water, kick





coming up for air every sixth stroke,

chlorinated water hardly moving.

around the pool, his feat ignored;

the crowd preferring to immerse

themselves in Kardashian dreams.


maybe one day he will grow wings and

fly, then they will sit up and take notice.


© Davy D 2017

An Hour With Jake

An Hour With Jake

the phone knows it’s Jake,
the ringtone changes to one
with a depressed air.

I think he used to be
in the military
as he always
manages to bypass
the answerphone,

and it rings,
and rings,
and rings,
and rings,

five minutes is the limit.

“hi, it’s Jake.”
“oh, hi Jake, how’s things?”

scripts roll.

his, a tale of how
his wife,
his dog,
his work colleague,
don’t understand him.

mine, a crafted questionnaire
designed for glibness,
adding to the
self-help deception.

third Thursday each
month, 7pm – 8pm.
in two years,
little has changed.

this week he’s convinced
the goldfish has started
swimming with its back to him.

some weeks I switch him
to headphones and catch up
with important things in the office.
other weeks, the negativity
hijacks me, and I slump
in the armchair and
watch the crack creep
across the ceiling.

the end is always the same,
Jake giving thanks for my
empathy and kindness.
me, having to wash myself
from the inside out,
with Malbec.

© Davy D 2017

Poetic Motivations:16