He is in the garden being sick
what he wouldn't give for a word with her now
or a hand on his shoulder as he shakes
He is in the study cutting highways in his arm
what he wouldn't give for a hoilday
from everything he contrives to be
He is in a rut, unbearably evaluating everything
such as the angle of his jaw
or the dirt under his nails
I hope the bastard leaves some day soon
No comments:
Post a Comment