How Do You Do It?
After Robert Lowell’s Day by Day — poems that stay unfinished. Inspired by a full moon walk under Bridge 87.
Each full moon brings a sleepless night,
a surge of energy, but I delight to think
back on one such night, my usual walk
beneath Bridge 87, how we might
have walked this stroll together 20 years ago.
You travelled far, then settled in Sandcastles,
Ocho Rios, hustling with your girl,
came home and ran a cookout. Then it came:
motor neurone disease, sclerosis, paralysis —
where the fuck did that come from?
I hadn’t got a clue about disability.
But now, your wheelchair and your carers,
I see cars parked on the pavement, concrete steps
at every entrance,
taxis — if you’re lucky it’s half an hour’s wait —
your favourites on the top of Asda’s shelf.
But look at you. Montego Bay in spring,
and back a fortnight, booking Cape Verde.
And look at me. I haven’t travelled years,
my knees are playing up, and coarse grey hairs
protrude from my chin. Like a diesel car
I try to keep on moving, keep on moving,
and each tap of this key a heartfelt feeling,
half a green bottle of Stella, not yet drunk —
The tram whizzes past and I thought
My dearest love, How do you do it?
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