"Next please."
We shuffle forward, two paces, tear puddles
pooling on the wooden floor;
in front my son, with fiery hair, skull and flames
dotted on his milky skin.
"Next please."
Outside the persistent pitter-patter of icy rain,
inside such heat!
Doors open with hypnotic fate,
my mum scurries in
"Next please."
A queue in serpentine motion, and I clasp
my lover's hand,
a park awake with scents,
chasing games, summer sin.
"Next Please."
Two kids scoop sweets from 'pick n' mix':
strawberry hearts for her, sugary snakes for him.
Granddad grabs a bottle of scotch:
he's wearing red wellies and looks bone thin.
"Next please."
I shed my clothes and look back,
through the tunnels,
to the garden,
where all endings begin. |
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