Saturday, 28 April 2012

25: Ore

It’s life when it gets tangled round
your ankles like too many sweatshirts
dropped on the bedroom floor. You’d
like to tidy but your brain is week-worn
dishcloths, your vowels are sopping.

It’s life that catches the coattails of the
cabaret waltz and allows itself to be
yanked across the ice rink and spun out,
dizzy, life trying to right itself and
falling to scuffed scabbard knees.

It’s life rampaging to the end of the month
and I am nowhere near the hatrack I
need to doff my cap on. Power hose the
pewter from my drains and send me kites
via the postcard service, send me

ice cream cones and ribbons, send a
promise that everything will be fine.
I have thighs for outrunning the outrage.

Beneath our feet in the warm earth
there are miners burrowing for ore. 

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