Thank you
for lighting up this room
just by entering.

And thank you
for talking to me;
I know it can be hard to do.

Thank you
for loving me
and all my faults.

Yes,
I've been thinking about you
and yes
I've been drinking
and yes
it is a lovely combination.

I hear a motor
In my head,
Cranking, moaning,
Turning, turning...
Nearly dead.

I have an onion
In my head;
Has it a seed
I can embed.
So I keep
Peeling, peeling...

I have a pencil
In my head,
An HB2
With blunted lead,
Scratching on
A blank cortex,
Itching to put
Thought to text.
Scratching, scratching...

I have dough
Inside my head,
Needing kneading
Just like bread.
When it's baked
Sliced and spread,
I'll serve it up
Outside my head.

aging is forgetting
bitten pencils sharpened
to shavings,
traded my HB2 for a B6
admired charcoal black lines.
paint tubes plastered shut
words tumble out on
any old scrap,
memories dashed against
trash heaps
maybe, burnt in bonfires
all those joys, tragedies
cradled in the wind,
carried to someone
who might be young enough to remember.