“I couldn’t live at your mam’s
It’s like a show house. Spotless.”
One of my girlfriends once said.

Tidy mam’s breath gusts over her own grave,
scrubs cold winter debris away,

her quick fragrant spring rain spray
polishes the surface as dead leaf

and blown bud dusters rub
the Yorkshire stone black letters

to a sparkle, feed the vase of flowers,
whose heads move toward the sun.

Mam, zips till
cold steel
nicks your neck.

Knots your scarf
till you choke.

Presses your mittens
till your finger
ends hurt.

Rams your bobble
hat on your just
brushed bonce.

Tightens your shoe
laces till your tootsies
are bloodless.

“Right, you’re
fettled.”

lf aware
in half light
everyone else
is whole
and whole hearted

half heartedly
half inclined
to half agree

half heavy
half hurt
half sore
half cry

half in love
half in hate
all by halves
half life

is a game
of two halves
half assed
half a job
with half a heart

half an eye
on others
half a mind
half drugged
half drunk

half man
half woman
half old
half young

half breath
half blood
half skin

half angel
half demon
half bothered

half believe
half a home
half a bed
half alone

half want
half wish
half need

half laugh
half smile
half frown

half hope
half desire
half death
is half truth

Restore my faith in what note,
as I climb the stairs
of arboreal crustaceans of words

mouthed through the clear glass
of the winter gardens
as I chow down on my flat earth pizza,

see kids wander with parents
finding white elephants
under the tropical shrubbery,

and paint their designs
on the elephant, name him,
so it is all displayed

beneath the clear glass
arches for a children’s hospital
charity. O, how my words fail.