Mule
I am exhausted, walking in the shadow of a marsupial,
always with fists full of cloth and an ex-dinner.
I rent the bad for a bang-bang on a guitar, stretching it out
like fly-paper and
I heap
myself on top, flopping every bone like a concrete cushion.
In to the corner, my eye gravitates, expecting a flick of heaven this way
and never sleeps –
my skeleton is a stiff chair and balky.
I kick myself and I repeat,
bearing my teeth for a hug.
