Jonathan Butcher

 

 

The Spring

A broken mattress spring scrapes
across my shoulder, almost drawing blood.
I tuck it in with a feeble finger, a convenient
delay, rather than dealing with the inevitable;
a shoulder gash is far cheaper than the sensible
alternative.

We both drift from the kitchen to the living room,
our lungs sharing the same uncut dust.
Our fingerprints overlap each other like cogs
in broken watches, as yet again we fail to follow
our own time accurately.

This garden, still four shades of green,
its weeds and foxgloves now outstaying
their welcome. The cracked, leaking bird-bath
drips in time with each lost word spoken;
as we rise from those damp rocks, I then realise,
that neither of us will ever clear this lawn. .

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