There is a broken blister in the cusp of my
right hand, on the border of zodiacal
signs, in that geometric point where arcs
collide in a cataclysmic intersect – a damn
palmists nightmare. You don’t
want to know how it got there...
It is dressed and ameliorated, bound
in swaddling cloth and cusped into
conversations. It is already more famous
than I ever wanted to be. The cursed
thing has cost me three days in delays
deeply indebting my sense of humour.
Nonetheless the chicken pen is progressing
and the soon-to-be doyens of the new hen
house express their intense impatience,
devouring grain at an astronomical rate
while lampooning me relentlessly with
obtuse chirrups of avian derision.
No use explaining, on the one hand, that it was an
act of goddamn stupidity which caused the delays,
and on the other, the left hand, saying ambidexterity
will take up the slack. It is too late to set-back this
inane idea so it will have to be Jack-built by a
patently unskilled, temporarily left-handed chook
fancier. And what that might event is anyone’s guess…
© I.D. Carswell 2006
No comments:
Post a Comment