Path

The baby in the pram
Has concrete eyes
She stares ahead
Dead against
Her dirty face
Knowing
What is ahead
Like the old woman
Who wipes her rheumatic hands
As if to wash
Away the words
What is
What is not
They offer me lemonade
Whilst I am shopping
For soap
I smile
The circle illuminated
Stark as yellow
Piss
Powder
Dust
Pay attention
A solution of lye and water
Well. You know.
Like we all know
Our paths
Scattered
Like bread crumbs
Collected in misery
Round and round
The Ginger Bread House
Lost
But not desperate enough to enter
Not yet
Although I would happily
Lie in the furnace
To stop my head from pounding
To keep down the vomit of reality
I am not allowed to spew
If I show myself they will strike me
Down
Down
Down
She whistles and pretends not to hear me
I don’t shout the real words
The words that matter
I won’t waste them
They are set in concrete
Like baby eyes
And worn hands
Hitched up and ready to run in my worn out trousers
Ready
Ready
Ready

I paid attention
To the wet kiss
But it left me empty
Sat in the pram
Rubbing my hands
Wishing
Wishing
Wishing
For the greatest moment of my life.