Having never been to yoga classes
I’m not familiar with
the sense of complete completeness on my

in breath, on my
out breath, while I hold the Mountain pose,
Lord of the Fishes or any other figure
I might imagine.

No, here I am instead
in the knots of my own still-life:
Person, writing.

*

You start these things
knowing full well where they’ll end.
One does, one does.

And this is where it’s at:
drinking tinny continental lager
at that table you found in the classifieds,
listening to Yazoo

and feeling stuffed
into the bag of my body.
Unwise, I know. Hardly transcendental.

*

You’ve got to dash and so have I.
Barely get a minute to myself these days.
That’s exactly how it is.

Did I tell you about my neighbour,
how I help her with her weekly shop
and sometimes make her up a plate
when I forget and cook too much?

If you fancy another coffee sometime,
Give me a shout.
I’m usually free.

*

And there you are, rolled out
on your exercise mat,
your limbs way beyond words.

You know the tall guy in the corner shop?
He found himself in Goa.
You know, the one with the greenish tattoo
on his cheek that’s hard to make out.

You know so much more, I can see that,
as you finger the air
like it’s a thought you can’t find the word for.

*

When we weren’t at it
like those cats that yowled
in their underworld of bisected gardens,

we were keeping time
with the badly-levelled, overloaded
washing machine
slamming through a spin on Economy 7.

Now, I’m listening to Yazoo
and writing
this.

*

For pain in the small of the back,
lie face down and push up on your hands,
keeping your hips on the mat.

The Cobra will also relieve tension,
if performed correctly, without distraction.
The top of the screen should be level with your eye
and your wrists should rest on the desk.

Congratulations on the purchase
of your new ergonomic office chair.
Terms and conditions apply.

*

Push the lock down on your door
and wind your window up.
This is not the city that was here before

but a city of women
with bony faces and shoulder bags
who smoke in pairs
in the ping-pong light of pelican crossings.

This is a ravenous city,
where foxes tug the guts from bins
and cats will come as silent as gas.

*

Everyone on Facebook is happy.
Some of those I know from school
are overweight, but look at them,

holding their kids
or drinking up the evening
in the lamps of their friends’ tanned faces
on holiday in a former war zone.

Like poems, kids keep you up
half the night, they say,
but none of you is online at four forty-six.

*

In my other spring, my other self
has got the blowers on, clearing
his fuzzy breath from the windscreen

while he waits for his daughters
- I don’t know how many -
to shamble out of dance class with their bags
and find his large saloon in the usual spot.

I reckon I’m fat. Big enough to fill the seat,
like a bear that sniffed out the glove box.
I shouldn’t be here. I don’t have children.

*

I know there’s a frog pose, but you’re a toad,
under the slug-silk of an old tarpaulin.
More grounded than a frog,

you’re no slow-blinking,
pigeon-toed Buddha of mud.
You’re not a poison purse of warts,
or a gulping gland of storm spells.

It’s not that you’re studying stillness, is it toad,
while here I stand before you, a huge, bald heron?
No, you’re a good heart, you common toad.

*

It’s the way of photographs
to tell it something like a lie,
and it’s easy enough to spot;

someone you don’t know in a paper hat
posing with their glass held up
and a plummy tongue sticking from the corner
of their wackiest smile,

tipsy,
full of cheer
or maybe completely pissed.

*

After careful consideration
of your application,
unfortunately, on this occasion.

We appreciated your honesty
and very much enjoyed meeting you.
Sincerely, most sincerely,
we wish you all the best in all you do.

For letters like this one,
Human Resources must use
1.5 spacing and 12pt Arial.

*

If I’m to keep the title as it is,
I ought to bring this poem back
to yoga.

So picture me balanced on one leg
under the pagoda of my reaching arms;
the notches of my spine are a stack of coins,
the notches of my spine are a stack of coins,

and my free foot
floats
at five o’clock.