TELL TALE TALK

Shark’s tooth
draws blood

( even though long dead )

a startled red
against the sharp whiteness

lost in a bric-a-brac
box of shells & things.

“Gotcha!”
grins the dead

shark’s set of
choppers.

Baby shark
but a shark nonetheless.

I drip a trail
of red

across the Charity
shop

snap up
a tattered HUNTING OF THE SNARK

a battered
AT SWIM TWO BIRDS.

Here
a broken ballerina

on a jewellery box
( minus her music )

there
( I stop dead )

a used
soul

bruised
badly used

Godless
without guile

my fingertip traces my initials
on its dust

tarnished
without hope

immortal and unnoticed
amongst shark’s teeth & shells.

I get
a SNARK & TWO BIRDS

for a pound
a piece.

The shark’s grin
for a pound again.

“What do you want
for this old thing?”

I nonchalantly
ask

setting the soul
with great care

within the cage
of teeth

perched atop
the books.

“Being dying
to get rid

of that
for ages.”

“It just sits there
staring at me!”

“Scares the life
outta me

to tell you
the truth

even though I don’t know
what the hell it is!”

“Give us 42p for it
& we’ll call it quits!”

I buy back
the soul

( my soul )

I had given away
with some old shirts and shoes

things I thought
I wouldn’t ever be needing

. . .again.

But seeing it
discarded amongst shark’s teeth & shells

I thought
twice about it.

Maybe
( perhaps )

I can use
it

for a paperweight.

Or a doorstop.