Geoff Page: Four Poems

One twenty over eighty

 

Systolic / Diastolic—

I’m watching the machine.

I like the sound and science of it

and have one of my own.

At times I almost hear

the whoosh along the arteries,

the stall between the beats.

One twenty over eighty

is what the world prefers,

discounting intervention.

I look on with bemusement

at how the readings vary.

Three times, maybe four,

I wrap the cuff around my arm;

then slyly note the lowest pair

of numbers in my diary.

I know about the weirdness

of white-coat hypertension

but here there can be none of that,

paused before my fruit and muesli.

I think about that faithful

well-loved muscle chugging,

distributing warm blood through tubes

the years have quietly narrowed.

Her thoughtful medications

attempt what they can manage but

my doctor, as she smiles,

knows it can’t end well.

One year, five years, maybe ten.

Together, we contrive to dodge

those unsought destinations.

“I’d like to keep that brain alive,”

she jokes. But what it needs is blood,

delivered at an ideal pressure:

one twenty over eighty.

 

        Geoff Page

 

 

 

 

The sign-off

 

“Best”, “All best” and “All the best”

will equally not do,

although the first two sound more chipper.

The words “Best wishes” are, alas,

incorrigibly vapid.

“Cheers” is university re-cooked,

three schooners at a bar.

“Regards” is colourless at best

and “Best regards” is no improvement.

“Ciao” is mock-Italian only,

an ill-made cappuccino.

“Yours” is way too much—or nothing.

“As ever” is the same.

How long, we ask, does “ever” last?

“Warm wishes” stokes a winter fire

but sounds a bit too cosy.

“God bless” may frighten atheists.

“Inshallah” can be OK

but just a little scary.

Unfazed by our fatuities,

the future wanders where it will.

Adios, amigo.

 

Geoff Page

 

 

 

 

The Deal

 

“I’m not ungrateful but

why wasn’t I consulted?”

she sulks with every second

adolescent breath

 

for that is when she sees

that scary fait accompli,

the existential truth,

each life requires a death.

 

By seventy or so

she’s understanding better

the deal that long ago,

with giggles or a laugh

 

(or soberly) between

a set of well-pressed sheets,

a sweaty pair of parents

signed on her behalf.

 

         Geoff Page

 

 

 

The Grammarian

 

The verb “to lay” is transitive;

its action “goes across”.

One “lays” one’s partner on the bed

unless she is the boss.

 

Americans all add a “get”

as in “I must get laid”.

As if a free range hen’s involved

and anxious to be paid.

 

The verb “to lie”’s intransitive.

You “lie” down on your own.

Your bed may be a double but

you’re lying there alone.

 

“Lay” can sometimes complicate;

it swims the past and present.

I “lay” down on my bed. Past tense.

Hens “lay”. As does a pheasant.

 

“Lay” can be a noun as well

just like a garden gnome.

Better not discuss, I think,

“The Lays of Ancient Rome”.

 

When Dylan sang “Lay Lady Lay”

he didn’t want an egg.

He’d left his primer and his pants

suspended on a peg.

 

One hardly needs to mention “lain”,

that awkward participle.

“I wish I hadn’t ‘lain’ with you—

or had that second triple.”

 

So “lay” and “lie”, it’s obvious,

are hard to get just right.

Be careful then with whom you “lie”

(or is it “lay”?) tonight.

 

Geoff Page