Milk Sours, Fish Stinks

 

Milk Sours, Fish Stinks

 

Dobson rests his elbow on the desk and thinks

that after three days, milk sours, fish stinks

and whatever needs to come to pass, must pass.

 

Every year that monkey puzzle increases in size,

dominates his looming prospects, filling moss skies

in a maze of signed flight before leaving last.

 

He is not the only ape lost there, you may be sure,

but are they conscious that they're looking for

passage to passing places and a last knocked door?

 

Years of knees chattering to weakening limbs,

infirm hearts and sucking love's blood to bring

him only fat Jimmy five bellies and ten double chins.

 

And these monkey puzzles high above Dobson gloat,

they're dressing up conundrums in impenetrable coats,

eight weeks past and nothing of consequence spoke,

milk sours, fish stinks, crumbled ash to stir and poke.