Duncan McGibbon

Duncan's poem as workshopped:

Letters from Rodolpho

You sit long-leggedly in front of me,
a battered table in between, on which
you write at my correcting pace, with glee
that I can spell and phrase without a hitch.
You're dreaming of the things that Tiffany
will natter on about tonight, in local pitch,
when, home, you drop and watch, exhaustedly
forgetting these letters scrawled from oversea.

You barely know the text and wouldn't care,
in any case, if you were challenged now.
"Rodolpho's just a crazy man whose dare
to break the law got grassed and anyhow
his brother knifed the grasser, so it's fair
in'it, Sir?"
         A teacher, I take my story-book bow
and wait for you, to take the pupil's share
of the action. "What's tragic's what you wear."

It makes no difference just who they are,
these people of shiny paper. You can
meditate on Monroe as the real star,
if you want. Truth never follows a plan.
Your tragedy's too separate, too far
away for me to reach. To be this man
means searching though you've found a gold bar
and finding means leaving the door ajar.

Duncan comments.