Your carefulness was a waste
Of fucking time. I needed your
Libido’s restless vice an unstable
Touch. There is much to fear
Paragraphs of fear and many poor
Taste suitors who might stick up
For a Woody Allen. Only place to go
Is the gym but the nearest is CLOSED.
I sustain myself with these sticky buns.
Q: Who is this person I’m fighting?
A: He is made up, mere grist.
The planes fly low and I view them
Often, foregrounded by evergreen
Leafiness. Everyone who’s talking
Stops a few seconds adding minutes
To each hour where they simply look.
I hit MUTE on my volume control.
It’s a good chance to reconsider
Whatever I’m up to. People say I’ll get
Used to it. I am new to this suburb
New to the lives of my neighbours
Who I overhear arguing and love
1 October 2015