There it groans again,
The voice:
A tone steeped in gravel.
It speaks from below
And chimes above,
Through a solemn
Here I am.
Awkward in my body.
Steering the poetry
As it appears:
Always too controlled.
I'm stood waiting,
The boy in the Thai restaurant
At the dark end of my street
Shunts
Toy trains along the table,
Surrounded by big
White buckets
Of prawn crackers:
Sagging in their cellophane bags.
Heading
Towards
Collapse:
Like a star pointing inwards.