Thin Socks
Five in the morning – a cold spring day.
My brother purrs his sleep next to me.
Mother yawns around the kitchen making tea,
squashes the bags against the cup rims,
straining the sun out of Celon like a sangoma.
She calls up for us both to get going,
and David mumbles his waking displeasure.
I am upright, half naked, pulling on thin socks:
making holes with my nails.
Fuck and It rise up like balloons,
soft formed and drifting away.
A chain barks from the yard, a whine then a moan:
she hasn’t been taken out for a while.
She hurts as she holds the hours in.
Dave hops around squeezing into his jeans.
Why does she not pee there and then?
Why do I have to walk her all the time?
I can feel the grey morning bleaching my tan
as it prises through the limp curtains.
We’re on the road to nowhere hums itself
as I let the day into the room.
Up above there are Canada Geese
parting the air with their V, waking and stewing today to
begin.
One goose calls to me: Leave
now, or forever hold your peace.
No comments:
Post a Comment