Forehead, kilner, unicorn

He said he smelt honeysuckle
when his forehead kilner crashed the tarmac.

'We want more white lines' said his sister,
drawing up a petition on the right side of his hospital bed.

'But its not like there is no language for reason'
his godly aunt muttered, wonky arms full of wacky entertainment.

'White or yellow lines, there are quotas
and combinations,
I cant give you any more than that'
which is what I would have thought he said.

He cried in the coma for his nose,
like a crookshank hat
and all the times when girls would try to touch him
and he would have to laugh.

Outside crickets circled the circadas
singing out 'shame shame,'
the doctor mentioned more samples
but to his wife lamented 'what a waste of symmetry.'

His sister pregnant as a cantaloupe shuffled in and out whispering her wishes.

On the third day he caught some strep
and dreamt of fruit under cisors,
some rememdy involving unicorns and photographing flowers.