Garbed in pastels and duns I went, though there were whims of crimson, and blue ebullience. And I was always just around the corner, safe in softness, empty of the passings by. On a day, I thought to write lines with hooks and sinkers. A thing to underlie, a thing to fill this tired camouflage.


Out of our heads!

Nights at the round table!Spouts of hot teasloshed into cups of tiny china.Cards and clinking glasses,glinting toothy smiles!One nods offafter too many Jameson’s.Piggyback up the stairs,unfold him into bed, hah!Open a window, will you?What, tired already?It’s only two!