Tom Paulin

A Noticed Thing

The windsock by the airfield
it’s hanging flaccid this evening
- hanging flaccid on its white pole
by the perimeter
I happen on it this hot humid Friday
like the way you find a symbol
in a poem or a novel
- something that’s over or predetermined
- something like that
or like this too obvious giant condom
with the teat snipped off
which take us back to the static
empty windsock drained of its usual orange colour
- your name is on me it says
on me like a bullet
I can tell you’re shocked
well just a tad you are
at being spoken to by a flat
- you called me flaccid -
by a flat windsock
- let me remind you
I was your image at one time
for the whole world
for everything-that-is-the-case
plus the wind rushing through it
or gulshing through it if you like
but perhaps you’ve moved on?
as you can see I’m all used up
like some friend you’ve left behind
- the world though is not conclusion
stuff that in your sock and ate it