The old man picks his way over the gravel
Bare foot
This ‘aint no fucking beach gramps
I walk over the bridge
Dreaming of Patti Smith
(whoever she is)
I ‘aint so fucking young
My head sinks
Down into the glass
There it is
The real voice
I would be young
If
I walked
Bare foot
Over the gravel
Whistled
I’m not so young
Not since the powder gouged my flesh
Stopped the blood
Flying up to my head
Stopped life
My life
Thursday is pie bonanza day
I take a bite
Hush the voice
That sears every thought
Sign my name
In that place
The one
You know
It is not quite my name
Not quite my confession
Sacred oranges too good to eat
Pink coat iconic
Tangled up in colours
Like a novice
Skipping rope
I choke
Throw away Vincent’s boots
In the black bag
With everything else
That doesn’t fit
Gone
In the bin
But not gone
I keep my shoes
Think how I may whistle too
If I let the gravel
Burn and Blush my toes.
