sitting like a stone
in your stomach. Like a branch
a dunnock perches on. The drone
of a deadbeat song. The lull of

a rainy afternoon when you
open the door, your skin wrinkled
like a prune. Your wet hair matted
to your face like grey cardigan wool

that pills. But you cannot shave off. So,
you toss it in your bedroom drawer,
along with the cards and pictures of him.
Cheers to the years you were green

and slim. This pain was an ice pick
chipping at you, the man’s tool! Now
it’s a rusty piece of metal that lost shine.
Cannot cut an orange rind. But it’s keeping time.