A stone – an impact of a crudely
aimed and thrown image plucked out
of a mirror of wry reflections clear
reaching back – a break-up and stacked
reminder of memories intact but still
not overgrown by today’s wild weeds.
And how do you react? Shitfaced and
embarrassed... You shrink into the drear
waiting room of public opinion glowing
with unseen bruises trying not to heed
curious eyes staring, fearing you’re the
day’s featured target of attrition.
It is there in your seat hair grows on
your hands turned into talons holding
the bloody red meat of memories rent
by a beak curved with self-derision. A
chance meeting – why should you care;
did the cards say it had to be like this?
© 19 June 2007, I.D. Carswell