who do you speak to when life settles into a form
that can only bring disappointment
day after day?
The summer rain, heading out to the coast and on, up, to the cold, cold North Sea?
where do you lodge the complaint
about the girl with the golden skin
and the tattoo on her shoulder
and the staggering ball of flame that seems to love her from unfathomable distances?
Is there someone on the Papal payroll?
how do you reset the years
when eyelids droop and wrinkle
and the fucking music comes out all the same
and the movies play out all the same
and the winters and the summers hold no shocks or hidden tricks
and the Almighty Jehovah does not descend from a New Jerusalem
to heal the sick and poor and dying,
when instead a bee smacks endlessly against the window
and a builder hammers endlessly against a building
and a car motors emptily across a city
and there is no one to hold you?
With a Terry's chocolate orange?

I am poised to savour triumph
so give me some.