I wait for something to go wrong.
It’s unfair to have come this far
and still be solvent, still be fit,
not scratching at an inner scar.
All my friends are ill, or dead,
or broke, or childless, or divorced,
or fat, or always drunk, or drugged,
depressed, depressing, boring, bored.
I know my turn must come. Perhaps
a car crash, or a slow-grow tumour,
or a scandal buried in my past
resurrected, whispered, rumoured;
or my wife in bed with another man,
or a son committing suicide,
or blindness, or my poetry
mocked, rejected, vilified.
Or maybe this happiness is it:
proof that I’m merely more deceived.
The suffering tell things as they are.
The fools are those who don’t believe.
First published in HQ Poetry Magazine number 46, April 2016