They are bringing the curtains
down over you,
the thick, viscous velvet curtains
and your story will end,
a final cut that runs
drunk away from the page,
as if you almost wanted it to happen,
like ‘here are my last words,
leave them raw and unfinished’,
a stream of ink your last remark.

Now, they all go fishing for something.
An ugly clutter of hands
picking at the pieces,
a hunt for golden titbits
to fizzle blindingly in their eyes
and bring about a shout,
a revealed mystery
which knocks them out.
Fifty-two years
of nit-picking through
the word-filled marshes
left behind
to last another fifty-two.

They have up-dug
silver slivers of your history,
re-heated them and rewound the tape
so they can swig your accent,
watch you unravel back
from thirty to twenty.
Book-club talks on your hair,
your scar,
your marriage,
every drop like a pinch of acid.

With a crackle, a drag,
it is said.
Is it done?
Is playtime over
with their favourite
aging marionette?
Maybe time has passed,
enough so they’ll only **** you again,
between the phone ringing
and the cup on its coaster.