TRADINGZONE_PUBLICATION_FINAL

TRADING ZONE #9 – ZERO
—
You are driving me
to the airport.
How many more times will I see you
in this world?
The answer is scribbled on the back
of an invoice that has fallen
behind the sofa cushions –
a finite number we can’t quite calculate.
We’ve run out of words.
We’re hungover from good Scotch.
The radio says high interest rates & relays
the final scores.
»»»»»»»
I am moving to New York, London,
the Republic of Somewhere Else.
It’s nothing personal.
It’s always personal.
Death guides us by the wrist;
such strong hands.
When the number hits zero
and a phone call tells me it’s too late,
I’ll be standing on the edge
of important work that needs interrupting.
Negotiating a compromise
between theory and the empirical.
The damn radio ceaselessly blaring
as I search in disbelief for that invoice.
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