I often think of things that are seldom looked after the rusty old seesaw does it miss the children's laughter?
The strip of receipt crying in the dustbin I feel the strange the odd the unseen. To most are invisible To me I am keen
I like to talk to empty wine bottles I thrill myself when the dead leaves rustle I touch the life of a living rock Alone and battered Peaceful but tough
I smell the crisp bathroom air Steaming with heat Believe me, I care
I dance with curtains in a still afternoon I sing with the wind In the chilly evening gloom
Play with the strings of a broken guitar Run my fingers through the smoothness of this scar
I merge the worlds of the living and the dull I see them alive In the depths of my skull