It Isn’t Of Course
It’s best to think of life as a thickish blue line
on a map
that stretches from here to Leeds;
a stop at Leicester Forest East,
Newport Pagnell or Trowell:
It isn’t of course,
only a fool would think that because
‘what about this skin on your toes
that’s flaking,
buttery fungus beneath the nails
minding its own business?’ she wails,
a voice like Portuguese tomato soup,
a face from never ending time loop,
all spit and French polish.
Then there’s that food
you ate yesterday,
inching its way,
inching its way,
‘and you probably forgot’, she says,
whilst sweeping the floor, panning for debris,
chucking pennies in wishing wells to visit Georgia,
somewhere like that
and many do think to feel
all that gritty snow between freezing toes
somehow it will all click into place
like a plucked snapdragon squeezed
will kiss and tease,
and when you look back
on this and that,
it’s not where you are
or where you’ve been,
just what you’ve left behind that’s seen.
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