We're moving house— he takes you a-
Part, piece by piece, picking, pulling, long thin
Steel supports from your joints. He holds you together,
unforgiving tenderness in steel arms as you crumple into a
pile of wood.
It's done— he waves a *****-
Driver, drilling in reverse, you watch him work
Metal out from your bones, skeleton scattering limbs about the
floor, which he meticulously collects and arranges, good as
new, unassembled.
Thanks for the help, you've been— it's alright, see you soon.
Next time, I'll take the bed.
We're moving house— you are driven a-
Round, missing a turn, new place, unfamiliar
Sights you do not see, your eyes on the frame in the back (of
your mind) as the van stops and your skeleton is
unloaded onto a trolley.
It's done— you pay a hundred in two fif-
Ties, broken like the bed tugged through the new
Doorway and left in the living room, with the parts laid out
neatly beside on cold marble, readied for examination and
elimination, remnants
of a time past—
When can you collect your stu— next week at the earliest,
One evening, Wednesday. I'll bring a van.
This is one of the first poems I wrote a few years back, one of my favourites really. It was a bit of an experiment with prose-poetry, mostly, it was a lot of fun to write.
