I hope there will be a moment when
When the circles fall from my eyes
To the floor
Get mopped away with sweet yellow lemon and a hearty wet
cloth
Mops which wipe the brow of those who expect
And deliver
I wait
In the bed
Nothing moves
Not arm
Not leg
Just a head tilted painfully stuck to the side
Where the spit collects
And cracks my lips
No one mops that up
The spit
The clock measures
Time backwards
As it always does in this place
Ten minutes an hour
All too much
Not enough
Every minute must be held and blown like a little chicklet
flame
Once the number is dialled the flame is given up
The shouts made
The hot drinks passed to useless hands
Spillages
No need to mop up
only me only me
I take the tape off my foot
My body peppered in welts and bruises
Lines tapped in thumbs and drilled in thighs
I hope they never find me
Just my blood
That is the currency here
I switch on at 3am
Like I always do
But I am held by wires and beeps
I try to edge to the edge
They spring from behind curtains quick as catching a fresh cup
of tea
They move my green bag further away
The little piece of being I try to reach
The watch that tells the right time
Not the Rabbit’s time which sits on the wall waiting to
trick and to fool
My sixty hours will fade away like bruises
I stand in the kitchen and measure
What they took
What they didn’t
What made them laugh
I sweep the grit from their boots now that I am back
Sweeping up chaos does not capture what I seek
What I have not found
That place which I can call home.
