11/11/2022
How we cope by John Gosnell
How We Cope
Once, from the window of my flat in East Ham,
I looked out and watched men
in top hats and black-tailed coats
behind the funeral parlour across the road
carry out a coffin to slide into the hearse.
But a straight-backed crow of a man
leant into the rear of the vehicle, opened
a trap door, and the coffin went in feet first,
hidden, out of sight, the trap door closed.
A second coffin, placed on top, followed.
To save time and petrol. One less
body to collect meant more time
out on the road. A side of the business
never spoken of and which nobody knows.
Distance is how we cope.
Cough
Like some morbid game of hopscotch,
I keep to lines marked wide on the pavement.
I am queuing to buy you flowers as it’s been a week
where nothing worth having has gone your way
no matter how hard you tried.
But all I can think is, don’t cough.
The tickle at the back of my throat is a feather
but a cough is a slur on the lungs.
As I carry the flowers away, I remember your words:
Love is like a cough; it cannot be denied.
Consideration
Wearing a mask but no gloves, he pauses at the fruit and veg.
Picking up a cantaloupe melon, he holds it close to his ear,
begins tapping it like a physician tapping a bronchial chest.
Unsure, he picks up another, holding one in each hand,
gently squeezing them the way he might caress his wife’s breasts.
He tilts his head in contemplation, unaware of the woman
waiting two meters behind him and who, at that very moment,
decides she has seen enough, Covid
or no Covid, and leaning across him says,
‘Excuse me love, can I just squeeze past you?’
A&E
I am sitting in A&E, socially distanced, waiting to be seen.
Everyone is wearing a mask except the young woman
brought in by police.
Dressed in jogging pants and a jersey top that stops
short of her midriff, she sits at an angle, her right leg dangling
over the arm of her chair.
Her clothes tell their own history, her eyes glazed.
On another day, the disarray of her hair might look intentional.
Her cheek is tattooed with a graze.
Two police officers, one male, one female, stand
far enough away for social distancing, close enough for trouble.
But why can’t I? The young woman shouts.
In a low, even voice the policeman says, You know why.
Abruptly, she turns away.
Her body has the eloquence of a child.
She covers her face with her hands, begins to cry.
Come on Amy, the policewoman says. What are you crying for?
Amy says something indistinct.
Suddenly, she looks up, wipes her face.
Why haven’t I got gloves? She spits the question out
like an accusation. You don’t need gloves. The same even voice.
Well don’t blame me when I give everyone Covid!
Eyes, peeking over masks, that have resolutely looked away,
flick in her direction, flinch, dart elsewhere.
A young nurse in full PPE appears from a treatment bay
and speaks as if she has stumbled into a long-lost friend.
Amy? It’s Amy, isn’t it?
Amy turns in her chair. Yeah, she says warily.
Come with me, my love, and we can get you all sorted out.
Amy rises from her chair and, escorted by police,
cautiously follows the nurse, each step hesitant and unsure
as if she barely recognises kindness
and is trying to remember what to do with it.
Artist statement
Four poems written during the covid period.
My work has appeared in various publications including the Guardian Newspaper, Dreamweaver and the BBC anthology Writing on Air. Highly commended on four separate occasions for the Cotterill Poetry Prize, I have also had a collection long-listed for the Poetry Business Competition, judged by Andrew Motion.
