Phoenix Maid Service

I calculate the new distance
between me and my little ones
and I feel so naffing alone
like Judy Garland
in The Wizard of Oz
(the best road-movie ever).

I have honed my wallowing ways
a dishy little darkness
where my eyes can widen
with replayed horrors
inventing news of trauma
woe invited by fear
and that stupid gambling theme
that I may love again
when I know I won’t
I don’t even want to.

Oh, the self-pity
that bin-juice sluice
I love to gurgle
stopping only to hear
the clock in the kitchen
a sound as beautifully lonesome
and ragged as time itself.

In front of all my demons
I pray for the day
when things make sense again.

There’s the pink shopping bag
on top of the old school trunk
that’s survived all my dainty moves
the pink shopping bag
full of birthday clothes
for my youngest
who a friend keeps saying
looks so like me it’s impossible
and I can’t help wishing
he’d shut his face
but I know I mustn’t
because he’s the only chance I have
of getting them to her.

I told someone I felt suicidal today
but thankfully that was earlier
when the darkness was delicious
but now there’s plenty of distance
between thought and action
and I don’t fall for sickness that easy.