Dean Sobers

I was going to meet you to see Dreams
of a Life at the Prince Charles. Some
way from our meeting point I had a
stress induced “petit mal” or absence

I was left on my feet and walking,
but it had overturned—jumbled
around—all of my mental furniture.
Walking down the street, I now
believed that I was part of a group
but had fallen behind. I quickened my
pace to catch up. Just round the corner
… catch up with them … catch up
with Order.

I was turning endless random corners
in pursuit of my phantom people,
dodging through the 6pm crowds.
I started getting calls from you. I
answered, but could barely talk. You
know me so reasoned what had happened.

You asked me what I could see
around me and to stand still. I mum
bled gibberish and hung up, frustrated,
humiliated. I couldn’t read street
signs or string a sentence.

You called and called. We seemed
to get nowhere. I wished you’d go
home. But somehow you intercept
ed me on Regent Street. I was still
marching about, waiting for my brains.
To be honest, you were sunlight. I
hugged you and said “Thank God” or

I’d have regained myself by my
self. It’s not real peril. I make it home.
But it felt so good then. It felt
heaven-sent to have your help.
It was everything out of nothing
not to be by myself.