Delete! Delete!
Feel so deleterious,
an angry Jove would palimpsest the world -
some Jonah hopping mad, the gullet
of a whale could hardly hold;
and yet the still small voices yell
from every drip that drops
or those that simply hang
in opalescent milk of cold, grey kindness.
Joe emerges, shuffling, unprepared -
'Go get one coat to sit on, one to wear' -
bored with the indoor graphic fury
of Urshie's Dragon-Age,
for a dose of cold, wet garden and his dad
so he can offer this reiterated thing:
'He took his shoes off in the charity shop.'
But dad's hand, treading breadboard,
thumb and finger flush (with hat and cane
tap dancing curliques to entertain his own
cold, aging brain) does its writing thing,
while birds feed on allotted seed.
