I shuffle through the detritus within my flat
My atomic stockpile
Once every so often I empty out the draws
The decaying *******
And forgotten poems
I put them up on a board
Prepare them for an emergency operation
I give them fillings
Attend to the cavities
Brush them down
Give them another lick of paint
And bit by bit they stagger into shape
Doctored.
Breathing.
     ...Just
If I didn’t do this
I would have to burn your cities
Hound your women
And unleash my attack on every corner on the globe
You should be thankful
I only clean out my room
Once every  ten years.