In bed my eyes are oysters.
I am sea sick and call bin men to witness.
Queen sweats throught the wall
wearing a white vest.
Downstairs the tap is complaining about numbers,
the gas bill has munchhousans.
Last night I kicked your bike,
conducted a writing exercise in emotion
behind a giant yellow skip,
what I really thought was, I bet I look awful.
I sweep the kitchen floor,
make a lot of tea,
stop to watch two woodlice shout 'slovern!'
The red onion head on the counter
reminds me I can cook, so I do
with my spine straight, skin flaking off into the wok,
you, reciting Don Paterson lines about distance and dignity.
