Black gauze stains skin as the
Silken sheen of tights trickles over limbs, and
Pools in a pair fake leather boots.
The sort that gnomes would make,
The sort that shops would fake
So suck it up, suck it in, squeezing the limb
Pudgy upper arm, veins near the skin
Wrap the bacon rind around the bingo wing,
Such a tight thing for such short sleeve,
The toothpaste’s lid’s open and the crust
Makes a smooth fit an impossibility.
Softmint eyes ebb and flow over pages,
Reading for days, assuaging the ways
That the lines on the page beat those
Cut on Friday nights with a razor blade.
Rapid page flips, shuffling whip cracks,
She sniffs up the plot, must be engaging,
Cos she’s reading the lot; losing the plot and
Her lips might be moving, but no sounds, not one jot.
Tracing the words, silently reciting as if she forgot,
That the carriage is bare –
But it’s seventeen forty three, so of course it’s not.