My Stranger<\/p>\n
hangs where the plaster cracked <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Speakers of half-finished sentences<\/p>\n live in the small details. They listen to Clair De Lune They see a van for the Snowflake Laundry Purity touches them. Whatever they do They say \u2018I\u2019ve never seen the attraction of\u2026\u2019 They\u2019re the vanishing people in Marty McFly\u2019s photograph, On office phones they say \u2018I love you\u2019, as they gaze They smile at young people at the edge of busy roads, They want to leave their sensible cars and star-jump <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" My Stranger hangs where the plaster cracked and the ribs of the house show. He\u2019s the only stranger I can afford, a middle-aged man in a plaid shirt smiling for an artist. Nothing to me, but still I hang him in the hallway and call him dad. Of course visitors have doubts. I know they […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":141,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_is_tweetstorm":false,"jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":[]},"categories":[327,328],"tags":[],"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"yoast_head":"\n
\nand the ribs of the house show.
\nHe\u2019s the only stranger I can afford,
\na middle-aged man in a plaid shirt
\nsmiling for an artist. Nothing to me,
\nbut still I hang him in the hallway
\nand call him dad<\/em>. Of course visitors
\nhave doubts. I know they know
\nhis hair\u2019s too light, the eyes too blue.
\nI win them over by recalling
\nour fishing holidays, how dad slit
\nthe belly of a rainbow trout and out
\nslipped a diamond ring for me.
\nA perfect fit. Dad was handy.
\nHe met my mother when she broke
\ndown outside the Camden Palace,
\nand changed her tyre without a jack.
\nHe made us a sherbet play house,
\nwe licked its walls to nothingness.
\nHe taught my brother harpsichord.
\nNow he\u2019s international. You may
\nhave heard him on the radio.
\nThat\u2019s a self-portrait. He never lived
\nto paint us all. \u2018What a terrible loss,\u2019
\nvisitors sigh. I lead them into
\na living room and whisper, \u2018Yes.\u2019<\/p>\n
\nover a car radio and smile and feel sad and remember.<\/p>\n
\nand imagine a room of bubbles and singing women.<\/p>\n
\nit will never be good enough. Hope is killing them.<\/p>\n
\nbefore someone talks over them. Listeners are theoretical.<\/p>\n
\nsmiling like idiots, in danger of never being born.<\/p>\n
\nthrough tall windows and see everything that isn\u2019t there.<\/p>\n
\ndressed as cardboard boxes and advertising pizza.<\/p>\n
\nwith them in mizzling rain, \u2018I\u2019d like to join you but…\u2019<\/p>\n