Not Wanted Here: Ninth Tattersby

roscoe bevington folly series not wanted here

Not Wanted Here

 

Awkward. He reminds himself he’d said it to the host

Not long ago. He’d meant Fiona. Tattersby. And the awkwardness was

Sex. Well, but . . . the guest says, temporizing. In this dense fog,

strolling with somnambulant, cautious footing, he feels the sheen of mist

like Lady Gimple’s atomizer. When he’d been her tutor,

she’d sprayed him with her Joy, making sticky the Chaucer, and smiling . . . laughing,

he must say, to see his eyes water. But what had been the notion . . .

It was this. That as the leaden pull of breakers, at the seaside, and the salt air,

make one feel not alone—but party to the wailing drowned,

he frets these spirits may have heard

A thought

No, he says aloud for their sake. I impute nothing. The French are different

And Miss Harvey. She, of course, is an American.

But, on the prudent side, I am not wanted here.

 

A ring shapes itself in parting obscurity

A gong-like train’s whistle

About that, where it seems to hit the scale

Shows teasing black, a dream of standing stones

Else a funhouse mirage

Of Dougal’s boundary post, reduplicated

Not his, of course, a borough feature

Meant to stand as sentinel, for public order

 


 

More of this piece on Tattersby page:

Roscoe Bevington

 

(copyright 2017 Stephanie Foster)

 

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