In a corner
With gold in a glass
And an empty ashtray waiting
For a moment’s pasture to matter.
But the world bounces off of my boundaries
At the moment and all I find is a
White tiled room and time enough
To count them.
A house fly’s
Buzz of otherness catches
My eye, but I’m already too blurred
To nurture its path across my page,
And anyway it would be difficult to find a
Single line in praise of parasites,
Although I’ve said delightful things
About wings before;
And those flown
Closer to home have not
Always been the best of receptors;
Most of my family operates on the
Stranger wavelength, whereby they don’t
Call unless you do, and therefore
Nobody does. Funny how we tend to
Venerate these fist.
I’d forgotten who
These people were, where
Their loyalties lay, how low on the
Pecking order we came and what
Holes are in them. I’ve a mentality looking for
A conflict worthy of it, and as my
Temptation resistor is blistered, I may
Have to risk insistence.