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I often think of things
that are seldom looked after
the rusty old seesaw
does it miss the children's laughter?

The strip of  receipt
crying in the dustbin
I feel the strange
the odd
the unseen.
To most are invisible
To me
I am keen

I like to talk to empty wine bottles
I thrill myself when the dead leaves rustle
I touch the life of a living rock
Alone and battered
Peaceful but tough

I smell the crisp bathroom air
Steaming with heat
Believe me, I care

I dance with curtains
in a still afternoon
I sing with the wind
In the chilly evening gloom

Play with the strings of a broken guitar
Run my fingers through
the smoothness of this scar

I merge the worlds
of the living
and the dull
I see them
alive
In the depths
of my skull


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