A single magpie
follows,
mocks my folly
down the silky path.
Watches me pass
old railway stations.
Hops around
mad vegetation.
Trembles like
a rabid dog in dirt.
Stands waiting
above tunnels
and unnamed bridges,
heading straight for
the south coast.

I exit the wood
with thumbs up.
Pull off my ear defenders
to let lobes
cool off
in oxygen pools.
Enter through the side door.
All rules abandoned
like dog tearing up fox.
We eat white loaves,
eggs poached,
plastic potatoes,
a couple of items off
the children's menu.
My appetite is applauded
and I'm thankful for
such a throwback feast.

Next, drowsiness
lets itself in.
Both chef and beast
access the same dream.
I'm left with
a handful of passions
and tattoos repeated.
Bite off *******.
Still chewing rings
when elder spits out
the only tongue
he's ever taught me
to imitate.

His knowing look
of devilish frenzy,
our cook wakes up
to nod along
with the crazy.
Dog jumps up
and licks master's chin.
Begin to think about
untouched piano keys
hidden behind that
golden mouth.
Hope for the carpet
finally retired.
Look through the
chintzy cabinet
filled with the same
**** since '86.
Imagine knocking out
that wall
my family is so afraid
to see fall.
Street becomes
a magpie nest.
Out of  
the warren's way.