Regrets

Eyes gummed shut with sickness
he forehead suckers the window;
makes plans to fill it with carbon
and kill off conversational clutter.

Shoes off, he toe picks between scatter cushions
elbow knocks past women with hearts healthy as aunts
and finds his vertebrae are fluid pots
and that tree knots are mere tiers of memory.

Snug in an oak crook
he watches two Morris Minors
court like mandrakes,
a blond haired boy bike
slip on a comfrey cluster
growing between two cobblestones.

All he can say is that he regrets
not eating more tree lindt
and not writing more
about the girls he saw curtsying
to the traffic on the B121.