The Figs Are Falling

The man was an alcoholic
The girl served him another ginger wine
Outside the young man noticed the figs were falling
And the breeze was lifting up the dirt
The Russian man raked his lawn
The bus driver rested his hand in his lap
Inside the picture was framed by the lightest of wood
And the smell of lavender came from the suburbs
There was a stray thought of soft skin and dark eyes
A young man was wearing shorts while pulling at seeds
The mother had her father's skin and freckles
And the smell of youth came from the bedrooms
The bottle of ginger wine was nearly done
The girl scratched at her shoulder and picked at her shirt
Bats flew from the west into the fig tree
And the smell of unwashed hormones filled the blue linen
The man lay back into his bath
His breath causing ripples into the steam
The Russian man pissed against the trunk of a lemon tree
There was a stray thought of tenderness and love
And the breeze picked up the scent of a wife's spite
The bus driver noticed the clouds just as the rain spat against the window
His hand scratched at his chin
The young man gave his thanks as he picked up a sports bag
And the bus was filled with the fantasy of steam lined walls
All along the road the leaves wore the colour of hearts
Shaped with two curves and a point
Their stalk, their branch, it was being raised all along the avenue
In baths, in buses, in gardens, on pavements and single beds
The scent of loneliness and captured fantasy saturated everything
It was the suburbs static energy
Being fed into a mind as a scene and ejected as a movement and blush
The man was an alcoholic but he didn't mind
He had a thousand happy memories
Some were true and some were dreams
One day he would, trembling, find the Russian, the Bus Driver, and the Young man
And they would be redeemed
Until then he would, with blurred mind, lie in his bath
And let the energy take over