A POEM WRITTEN WHILE UPPER CLASS POLITICIANS AND THEIR FAWNING ACCOLYTES SPOUT LIES ON A SUNDAY MORNING TV SHOW

THINGS I CAN’T STOP

I can’t stop the dog writing a book on the history of dogs
(It’s still in the research stage but I haven’t the heart to interfere.)
The dog insists on silence while he’s working.
We tiptoe around him, communicate with an elaborate
Selection of signs, try to avoid boiling the kettle.
The sound on the television is muted.

I can’t stop the cat sound-proofing the boxroom.
Neither of us know why he’s doing it.
When we ask, he looks sternly at us, says:
It’s not something you would understand.
One day you may, but not for many years yet.

I can’t stop the spider in the top corner of the living room
Filming a drama-documentary about the village of Rungholt
Which sank beneath the Walden Sea in a storm
Because of the sins of its inhabitants.
Many thousands of innocent spiders died.
Every morning we put the spider outside.
Every evening he’s there again pointing his camera
At everything we’ve ever been.

And I can’t stop the memory of the day
We drove out to White Pocket, Arizona,
And you said: Maybe is all we need.