My thoughts are not Flowing From my fingertips. Clammy palmed I Clunk the keys With hands which Do not meet My mind and think Of nothing more than The side of the chair as
You started listening to music again when You moved to the flat by the harbour, And stocked your fridge with irn-bru. I don’t remember you drinking Irn-bru when you lived with us.
Things move, And are moved By hands other Than my own. Propped against the station Bench I imagine I am a pair Of tights emptied Of their legs. Slackly I sit and remember