Thursday, 11 February 2010
My back is half-turned from the door,
I am more open to the window view.
Bucking my teeth, my bottom lip hammocked,
Here is a fountain pen gripped in shivers.
I want this pose to last.
If she should walk in now
(I am expecting her visit at any moment)
She might think of me as a writer,
I could write her a thousand verses.
Two stray cats stretch their skinny bones
On the roof, yawping friendship.
I’m going to get out of here soon, I know it.
In Room 4, the fat schizophrenic starts again,
Growling, ‘I am not all that alone’.
The chairs beside my bed need sitting bodies.
That is not what they are for.
I give up on my pose, wash my hands
And my face, and tidy away my books.
I am expecting her visit at any moment.