A poem by Alex Boyd
Oh God, Godzilla. A theory: you’re lonely
and clumsy, always roaring, pissed
around people who disappoint you, always
breaking buildings looking for something,
you don’t know what, kicking at the dirt
like a boy without a ball. A man in a cap
on the corner wants nothing to do with you,
the whale in the water wants nothing to do
with slaughter, the ice cream waits in the freezer,
and you carry on opening stairwells like gifts
on Christmas day, knowing people are firefly
trapped in there – remove the stairwell and
you see they’re doing an upwards jig, an ode
to possibility, completely unseen. Found
in stairwells cracked like nuts, they’re soft bullets,
slow motion sets of events in the making.
Right in front of us, things happen: the man
in the café didn’t see who tied up the dog,
and didn’t see who took him either. It’s
how we are to stairwells, instantly here, and
gone. You wonder: what are they broadcasting
from the roof, why don’t people see more?
And what are you doing but trying to help?
ALEX BOYD's latest book of poems is The Least Important Man (2012).