4pm, outside mcdonalds. school kids are beginning to gather. “oh my god there’s something seriously messed up about that new lad. he’ll probably be a murderer or something when he’s older.”
“he’s such a freak.”
the grubby pigeon
with strange markings –
prince of all birds
Up in the early hours to brew a coffee munch a chocolate bar. Feels a bit of a dare like midnight feasts of schooldays
dark of the pine
against dark of the sky
In an effort to become what you eat you consume seven tons of lobster. Six weeks of complaint filled days pass but no lobsterness in sight. And then on the seventh week, a Tuesday afternoon, if that matters, you notice a pincer growing behind one of your knees.
old fish market
a million dead fish
your hair colour
Only one more hour until dawn. Even on the shortest night deprivation of light and all it brings a challenge.
the blackbird ‘s notes
For a long time, Captain Hector Barbossa lived in our kitchen cupboard.
During dinner, we heard him eating apples, being disinclined to acquiesce the request of parley, encrusting his peg leg with gold and jewels.
One day he wasn’t there.
“He was just gone, mum”, my daughter said. “He was recognizing that the wind was blowing in his favor, and requesting all sails be made ready to grab as much wind as possible”.
“Maybe”, I asked, “we will see him again?”
“Oh. No”, my daughter said. “But nothing too bad, mum. I’ve invited Harry to come over here before going to Hogwarts. I just sent him a letter by flinging it out of my window for his owl to pick up. You’ll love him.”
the platform 9 & 3/4
on my back
He only played Bach, the music teacher, my neighbor at university.
When I asked why, he answered: “You can be sure that the angels play Bach while praising God in Heaven.”
I laughed. “Oh yeah. So in Hell, when the demons praise Satan they play probably Penderecki.”
the belling of a stag
calling his mate
circling his ‘i’s he
fine toons his (spleen + bleach) speech
on the titanic
8 o’clock, Thursday evening. From that first tentative ripple of applause through spatulas on frying pans to a smattering of fireworks, the inhabitants of our locked down microcosmic Wonderland can be heard looking out. For each other.
those still working
Asleep all day.
Awake all night.
Alive. (In spite of a certain FaceTime tea party.)
out of the frying pan–
no one to bellyache