Singing blue,
it's freezing in this morning air
any heat I drop
is
frozen on the spot.

'where
have you been to my blue eyed son?'
up in the mountains without a coat on.

Then the smell of garlic brings me back
overpowers me in this underworld,
fingers curled,
I should curl them round his throat
garlicky
old bearded goat.

But I renounced those violent ways,
says he and not believing it.

Her eye shadows disappears underneath black curly hair,
everywhere I look
everything I see
all that I do
reminds me of
me.

A memorandum to the man then,
take a note or two
I took
did you?

Spare a thought along the way for silence which has lots to say
or spare a copper for those poor souls
who came a cropper in their quest to be much better.

I still smell garlic,
though the seller had long gone and yes he did
have a big coat on,
fingers curled John?

still better to be this way when all ahead is what it is and that's a Monday in the city,
such a
pity really.