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
there is no home free all…

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




Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s