Bequeathable Sanitoria

Don’t be offended
if as an old love song

you’re the needle in my arm
the messy heart and anchor tattoo

that won’t be scratched out
of these polished corridors

locked down night and day
awaiting the scuff of attendants

as they whistle away
‘feel, I’m going back to Massachusetts’

you’re the straightjacket
I can’t shake loose of

borrowed shoes for romance
not enough hair for style

out of the high storey window
my second-hand coat open

phalanger spread flying cover
the last cast iron bed home

if you were there to hold me
in a wayward parable of rain.

Abandoned Soliloquies UnCollected Press 2019