Things I Taught You

Time flies.
Days turn to night,
Or is it the other way
I’ve lost track of time,
Or am I wrong?

Like rugby,
Things I Taught you,
A scrum, bodies entangled
You found it funny.
I found it rough. You
Said it’s because I like
to be different. I think not.
Maybe I am wrong, or you.
In my couch, us alone
I pull up the Haka, the
One they call the greatest
The one their opponents
Encircle them. You find
It weird. I think so too.
You tube is like that,
Not the most romantic thing,
But we get it. It’s the third time
You’ve said we are weird

It’s Sunday.
My bell rings.
You are done with church
It should be you. But,
It’s not. You won’t be coming,
Not like last week, or the other
week, or the one before.
This is the new us, coming
home without seeing you.

Like Hamilton,
Things I Taught you.
You said I love different.
I don’t think so.
If you miss out on
childhood scrums, you’d
Love speed. Like me.
You agree, you say it’s why
I nearly killed myself four
years ago, driving at brake-
neck speed. I say it’s life
You agree again. We always
do, except when it comes
to change—change for you.
What does that mean? DRS
zone? Monte Carlo, I told you.
We’d be happy there, that’s
change beyond prying eyes.
A knock—on my gate.
Silence.
It can’t be someone we know.
Covers can’t be blown
Until we make a decision
To turn the corner or miss the
chicane. You hit the barriers,
To taunt me? Or haunt you?

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Like Golf,
Things I Taught you.
I told you Tiger once hit an Eagle
Down the fairway, then a bogey.
You told a friend here is
the route to my place.
“How did you know?” she asked
You hit a birdie!
Silence.
Hours later you’d tell me,
And we’d laugh at her,
Our secret. None will
Know, or maybe I’m wrong.
Your friend told you:
Can you live with that? A godless man!
Somewhere a nail, somewhere a
Coffin, then a man with a cross.
You can live with that. You made
for him. And sealed our fate.

Like Poetry,
Things I Taught you.
The night we realized we weren’t
Colleagues. I sent a poem
W.B. Yeats, the one that sounds
Like your name. Clothes of heaven.
You said you don’t like poetry,
But you got that. Deep into the
Night, holding off the sleep
“but I being poor have only my dreams
And I have spread them under your feet
Thread softly because you thread on my dreams” Yeats. Or me.
I may be wrong.
Night turns to day.
Love turns into hate.
I didn’t say that,
Or did I?

 

 

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The image in the post is an adapted version of a photograph by Whit Andrews via Flickr

About the Author:

Portrait - EbirimEbirim Danvictor Anozie is a physician specializing in cardiology. He graduated from the University of Calabar medical school and currently works at University of Port Harcourt Teaching Hospital, Rivers state. His non medical interests are Chess, Astrophysics, and literature. He is currently working on an anthology of poems.