Yorkshire, 1983 *

‘Who to trust, when every exchange is one-sided?’
The wheels of the sun grind charmlessly over my halo.
‘That’s no response!’ I lambast, genuinely upset.
The warm light huffily stamps its feet; retreats.

I crunch a green pepper behind the crematorium, boots
drying on the coal bunker. A scrap of toilet paper reads:
Beware the ides of March. I ignore the caveat & lick,
in tiny writing: Enjoy March! Our least eventful month!

In a perfect world I suppose Helen, hair nestling her white
bottom, could peel the yellow crust from my lip;
an amiable philanthropist would buy my highly skilled tongue
& we’d LIVE, idle as lucky old suns, enjoying the waters.

Sadly, Helen works as a civil servant & avoids confrontation.
The only talent-scout in Yorkshire killed himself, for her. 
I bear a violent grudge over bone & rubbish salad, sparks
winging their little dream, of pornographic Russian dolls.


* First appeared in Stride, April 2009