Collars Up
Thumb and forefinger tap out rhythms,
Upon my collarbones.
Tentatively feeling for the smooth caressable bone,
Bone that is sometimes prominent,
And sometimes not.
Skin stretches over containing me,
Stopping the bone from tearing out in protest.
Milky skin that hides milky bone,
Yet dotted with freckles and scars.
But below is ivory pure,
Not blemished or faded or flawed,
Nor tender or feverish or worn.
Following the cascading bone down,
As it joins with others to create a frame.
Then padded out by muscle and fat,
That clings onto the ivory pure.
Southport is an open grave
Southport: The place corpses are stacked high,
And the sea is far from sight.
Where mobility scooters reign the pavement,
And the A&E waiting time is seven hours.
Southport: The place I would call home,
And on dull summers days I’d go to the fair.
Where the roller coasters would swoop like finches,
And the haunted house would scare your friends.
Southport: Where I buried my father,
My uncle, my pets.
Where the burial plots are filling,
And cremation if rife.
Where the sea is always just out of sight.
38 Mount Culver Avenue
Glass crumbles underfoot,
As moody winds brush against the windowpanes.
Cans crushed by aggressive hand litters the floor,
Small stove lies docile in the corner.
Home.
Where I can hideaway from bitter thoughts,
The ones that try leave an after taste in your mouth,
But here is cold sunken peace.
The kind that echoes in the damp rooms,
And leaves its scent in the upholstery.
Some cans rusty, some gleaming,
But all empty inside,
Casings from bullets, now dormant.
Home.
Where I can imagine you sat besides me,
Legs crossed and arms outstretched.
Welcoming me home with an embrace,
Perhaps dinners in the oven and awaiting our taste.
