Thursday, August 23, 2007

the stars outside are shouting my name

I get my laces twisted up;
my face, lit up
by what's shining in yours.
You say: I've got to go.
Messing with my zip, I say:
If you're going, then go,
and light a cigarette,
forgetting I don't smoke;
get up to make coffee
but the fridge is empty.
The stink from the pan
comes sweet and sickly,
like a man's last rites
when his end's come too quickly.
I wash it up, rinse off suds,

leave the window half-open

like a secret weapon, like
history.

1 comment:

SarahA said...

'like a man's last rites'
Great write, you.