Between Saturdays
LISTEN NOW
I grieve on Saturdays
When the light snakes into my stone grey dreams
And I wake to the muddy green cacophony of half lived lives
Yours is buried in April
And remains, full of fledgling certainty
In each of many pink indentations, worthy as the
Pliable plastic plectrum
Found, like the other overloved
Ubiquitous articles that at sixteen
You leave, strewn, a trail of foresworn promises to yourself
Brown and stripped from the thick flank skin
Of a once deliberately hill grazing cow
You placed your man bracelet on top of your
Hill of dreams,
The hockey puck, out of thousands it
Flew towards your unspoken joy,
The stunted ticket stub
Your small treasure trove
replete with moment stacked on palpable moment
In your concert of half dreams
the cheaply moulded trophy,
Falsely silver cup, sculpting its cone of dust ridden air
Swallowing these textured, undusted details
I forget your name
And taste the colour of your yeasty, deeply brown breath
Between Saturdays
