The Itch

maybe it’s the wind in the willows
or the pea tendrils groping for poles
or the big fat fern
brushing my knees – who knows
[and maybe none of these]
but when it hits
it’s what I wouldn’t give…
to slip the knot,
play the bow-tied spiv –
not so much undo
as wiggle through
a few interstices…

those lines
between the floor tiles
[for example] draw subtle smiles –
a grid
of potential runaway routes,
graphic conjurings of liberty –
although I know
[semi-pertinently]
there is no home free all…

still
wouldn’t it be jolly miss molly
to escape
the constant rape
of time

.

.

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