By | 1 August 2010

I am more empty
than something sucked dry
by a man lost thirty days
in a desert and now

I feel the leg hairs of ants on my temples
and they knock
and wait for someone to open the door,
but there is no doorman
in strangling suit of blue
or maroon, or some tertiary

instead there’s a cup on a table
and it’s just about to be filled,
though not until the little man
gets back with the paper,
and by the look of the spider webs
it seems that he left weeks ago
and was in quite a hurry, his hat still on a hallway peg

I’m still looking for him, his brain
is valuable; the way he’d read his own headlines
before acting out the best bits of movies
with woodchips from the flower pots
or lie and say he had Peter Sellers’ copy of
In the Mood
or that one of his ancestors slept
beneath Cadair Idris and went mad
and ate chicken feathers all year
until he wasted away.

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