Monday, 27 September 2010

Don't mistake the dark for depth.

The sky’s greyer than a smudged pencil
and it’s erased your face with the ease
of an experienced error maker.
Routinely overcast,
shadowed regularity ridding welcome familiarities
from the expression you carry in your mouth's corners;
until I can't tell if that smile's because
I'm so wrong or so very tragically right.
You may be my clouded judgment or just your own,
but whatever the weather the weather man seems a con artist.
Can you at least sit upon that leather masquerade of
a sunken tangerine sold weeks ago
and tell me if you wear dark's mask willingly?
I preferred it when it was simply
a relic on a wall from a Halloween.
If it's to blame for shackling itself to you
clinging like a shadow to an ankle,
I'll devote my days to restoration projects
until you're back to the way your doors opened.
I've always known I could make a chapel out of you.
Thinking about last summer,
you're struggling to remember why we
wrapped it carefully for the bin when through,
as told to do on gum wrapper illustrations.
I wouldn't rather it have trailed the tread of our sneaker soles
entering every home we’ve left since.
Are you not as keen on staying clean?
"My heels aren't dragging, they're caught in the carpet"
would be awfully silly last words.
Barely noticed nor thought of
that rug in your room beside the records
but now here I am on a Monday in September
wondering what you trod in beneath its tassled edges.
Tell me, are you still chewing that old gum for fun
when it’s lost all flavour?

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