Oh! We've had it now.
Five months round the fire,
groping through the dark,
Christmas decorations up
in October Park.
Tree in the bin on Boxing Day.
We can't heal ourselves or steal happiness.
Nothing to say, just inarticulate hope,
faded as my overcoat
blocking the draught
that laughs behind the vestibule door.
Come on in. Park on the floor
I'll switch on the gas,
turn up the heat, make a meal out of everything.
As you can see at last, I am turned inside out,
my entrails shiny gloss exposed,
the tip of my nose frozen,
stuck to these dull surroundings.
Old settee, faded curtains,
mothballed suit stitched up by Burton's.
Its not even certain I'll be here in Spring.
The darkened hour, sweeps in
forcing clocks back,
while emptiness sleeps beyond smoky glass.