That man, that landed on the beach
maybe he killed a man
that grew tomatoes that tasted like
artificial sun and paraffin
That man, who peeled onions on the patio
with thick thumbs
in the same place he used to hammer chain
That man, with stones lined up on the wall
ready to aim at the neighbour’s cat
who used his potato patch as a toilet
That man, who ate so many fishcakes in the war
the thought of ever eating one again
would turn him seasick green
That man, who cleaned his tools
like a soldier cleans his gun at night
That man, made of weld
maybe he killed many men, he never said
That man, he seemed so soft to me
that had I ever dared to hug him
the two sides of his body might have met
and squeezed out everything that passed
in between
Daniel Cartwright-Chaouki is a gardener and writer from Birmingham, England. He writes about trees and plants (mostly) and people (sometimes) and other unimportant things. His work has featured widely both in print and online including Pulp Poets Press, Fixator Press, Password, The Lake, Coin Operated Press, Sextet, Alocasia and 100subtexts magazine.
The Cabinet of Heed 