Panic? No.

A poem I have very mixed feelings about. I don't consider it one of my more elegant efforts, I occasionally consider it a bad poem, but it has one merit - it was written in blood. It is pure albeit purely personal emotion, even after all these years reading it still makes me sad. It's the lament of a woman dating an alcoholic, whose unreliability was notorious. It's honest at least; although as I say it's not one I particularly admire.

Panic? No.

Panic? No.
Unease; a queasy swell of uncertainty and discontent;
heart beats faster, hard to concentrate,
fidgeting and fretting.

Panic would tighten its grip
till discomfort becomes physical pain.
This is less than that,
but bad enough.

Panic is for 3 am when no more taxis
turn off the main road past my window.
At that hour there are few excuses
left and hard enough to lie even to myself.

But a thought is left
that the next taxi will be the one
despite a dull realisation
that this is unlikely before dawn.

No, this is unease;
the cautioning voice that warns
you will be gone for this night.
Where are your promises now?

Could you really lie so falsely
(a rhetorical question, no answer necessary.)
I adopt reasonble tones even in my head -
where are you when you are supposed to meet me?

I call this rude (I mean torture)
and thoughtless(which means scourge)
ah the insincerity at the back of that
I knew, the moment you rang and warned of delays.


Geraldine Moorkens Byrne

1.