Sometimes, just sometimes . . .
I need an arm coming out of my head
like an arcade game catching soft toys.
It’s the smell of fish and chips; there’s a need
to buy them, and hold a parcel of greasy things;
and drink orange Fanta.
The streets are lined with paper
with tomorrow morning’s news,
and you aren’t going to be okay.
Sometimes, just sometimes you need
a morning is worth getting up for,
with its headache and coffee.
As I tongue a mouth ulcer,
and the water stays hot as I shower,
there’s still some fresh clothes,
and yesterday’s shirt,
plus a twenty dollar note
stuffed in a pocket.
love letters on blue paper
I count to seven
too scared to get to eight
or nine, or ten
as I have to come out