Life in the suburbs

And do you take, sir, you take

the packed lunch tied with silver hair,

hooked, so and so, so and so;

a clock, a ferris wheel.

Is it sand, or dirt, or the flap of a cut thumb,

does it sting, satisfy,

the tastes of this new world? So needy,

so complacent.

Don’t stare, fish pallet, at my hyena teeth;

aphasia of the mind, hyperpolarisation of the tongue,

is that the name you hold for me?

A clock. A ferris wheel.

Stand, hunched, a story from Paris,

handing over the curled petals of your fingers, the slow witted

thorns of your nails. I do not need the irony

of your Imogen Cunningham memorabilia.

Square steps, you compromise,

One two, one two- so and

So?

...................................................I am so tired of this.