Bill Bathurst, The Collected Poetry & Prose
edited by Bob Arnold
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Longhouse, 2022
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Time On My Hands
for Billie Holiday
As though abed in white satin
her wedding night with Prez
that never threatens dawn,
her voice from the Thirties
untouched by Death
the lone night through.
As though Lady,
filling in my silence
like Prez when her soul
caught its breath,
could ease me through the dark,
“I’m Pullin’ Through.”
As though that voice
would never trail off,
dawn never catch me,
like a shade flying up,
sandwiched between mirrors
taking a piss,
wide-eyed and hollow
cheeks needing a shave,
this image reflected &
diminished to a point
invisible with silence
she must have welcomed,
leather soles of police
on the waxen floor
of her hospital death room
heard inside her eyes
as gardenias of years gone by
crushed underfoot.
As though, then, this coda
could finally be left
unwritten: Sunday, lonely,
guest of a friend
gone to bed with his wife
pregnant again, restless
when I write this,
outside I’m spaced, the sun
at my armpit, encircled by
acres of broken land
flat as my prospects,
weeds & barbed wire running riot
like doubts in my head
make it hard to walk,
uncertain & shy, alone &
a long way from home.
20 August 1967
