the table
is on its back.
legs in the air
like a dog playing dead.
and like someone
who’s just killed a dog,
I work screws loose,
and ikea bolting. search the box
for the vice-grips
and various allen wrenches,
place pieces of metal
in the upturned lids of jars. the linoleum
gives on my knees. I shift my weight,
searching for scraps
of softness. clink – another one
and the leg comes loose. I’ve watched
documentaries – ants
crawling on a dead cow, collapsing
with high speed photography.
another leg goes – tendons
break with my weight. above me
creepers collapse. you bring me a beer
and tell me the van
is almost full.
you’re ready to go
when I’m ready.
Patience.
around us
traffic stacks
like cards in a game
of patience.
I am a card,
flipped up
and sliding forward
from one place
to a more useful
one. to the west
the hills
are white and lovely –
it snowed last night,
but didn’t stick
to footpaths. I live in the city,
work outside; sometimes
I think I’m lucky
that every day
I leave.
the hills pile
like white clothes
on laundry day.
I look at them,
bored with patience;
note their creases,
their stains
and grease.
Like little creatures.
words roll a mosey
and stroll down main street.
flit like
little creatures
and slip the quick
away. all those conversations
we had once in the sun,
flashing
with glorious yellow
for a moment,
only a moment,
and then dying
and drying,
flying on wind,
paper brown
like blown and broken dandelions.
that we don’t want children:
because as things are
our lives already
are built around
the dog.
making sure she shits
where we want her to shit.
that she sleeps
where we want her
to sleep, and pisses
where we want her
to piss. I wake in the night
when she’s anxious
and take her out.
and it’s always
because of bathroom stuff,
like apples
falling from apple trees.
she rolls about,
flicks her tail
and watches
as I put it in a bag.
my life
made in image
of her life. topiary, bent
around wires, drawn
to uncomfortable
shapes.
three o’clocks come
and four o’clocks,
handed about like toffees.
the hour trundles forward,
determined as a turnspit dog.
beneath the clock
and we lounge about
on sofas in our underwear, playing with
the dog’s belly
and with each others
hairs. shifting through tv shows
like someone at a junction
lost in a foreign city
trying to find
their train. we drink beer
from teacups and cups
of tea with the curtains drawn,
cast about for cravings
of something specific to eat.
we loll, purposeless as cattle grazing,
relaxed as cattle, expectant
as cattle.
our life on saturdays
is a vague one,
without interest. you like it
like this. I like it too,
like you.
Cacti Fur 