Magic Touch

The woman who lays hands on me in the high street touches my shoulder and says well done you.
I realise I haven’t been back to the bad place since she touched me on the bus.
I feel giddy.
I see a penny pick it up.
I lay it on the counter.
Next to the little plan and purse.
Next to the little paper mats I cut out from the shoe box.
The shoes hurt my feet.
But they are from you.
I knead need knee-ed you.
I like the little paper mats. I cut around the pictures of the dragonfly and butterfly. I imagine some people would use their new shoes to take them to the dragons and the butterflies. But I am happy to imagine from home.
My little mats absorb red so wonderfully.
Stop the watermark of dreams melting into the wood.
There is so much fantasy.
I find eleven numbers. Yours if I put them in a row. And dial.
A paper mat of rightness keeps me away from the phone.
Well done you.
Maybe you passed in a suit. In the sun. I don’t see faces any more. It’s all CCTV inside. Movement without noise. Actions people will rewind to find out where they lost me.
It shrieks in here. That last packet of toilet rolls. Can't you see.
Find. Magnify. Erase.
I walk down an alley to absorb the thoughts. The cobblestones mop up the overload.
I see one word on the wall.
I take a photo.
Really I want to cleanse it.
How can there be a little ghetto next to the pie shop.
Cleanse is such a mighty word. A smell of the shed you want to forget.
So many things disordered. Sometimes it leaks out of my lips. Or rubs the skin off my heels. The torn skin of a day that isn’t quite right.

Still I have the touch.