Twistical Mourning

Hard to say what I will miss more: the My Lai massacre
of soft toys on the floor; the purposeful teetering, near-lost
footing, a mini-robot drunk on diesel, mission to explore.
She consumed my life like pudding (that’s what they’re for)

so as the remnant slops dry and crust on laminate, what’s left
is a hole like the Devil’s Arse. A boozer, loser, addict, bore.
My Sky box is still set to six-one-seven. Her favourite,
Numberjack Four, is getting brain gain, turning back time.

Go on, you groovy blue numeral. (Hic.) You know the score.
Zap those clock hands. Keep Constable Woolfe from my
door. Make him fast rewind with the interference lines of
VHS. Put the notepad away with the onset of facial stress.

Have him back in the panda, reversing out my street, taking
with him the news all parents dread. Eyes. Apple. Dead. Core.