Two Thousand and 12 Years Old

I remember when the world was flat

and the water ran off like

a spilt drink on a tabletop

and how they’d do day trips

to the edge on little tour boats

that tugged-up by the big fence

they’d built all round the edge

to stop people falling off.

 

Then there was that time

man went to the moon

and I remember languid legs

and sooty boots shaking off the ash

next to that statue they found

of some old guy in a diving suit

and the big investigation afterwards

into pre-history and nuclear weapons.

 

And what about that hot summer

in 2008 when all the money melted

into a chocolaty mess that lined

our pockets and everyone got agitated

because it would take years to

come out in the wash unless

they were rich enough to afford

the laundrette or tax evasion.

 

 

Living-Room Spirit

There’s warmth beneath

the bed sheets: propped up

with rudimentary supports

- sticks from the garage

and leftover poles

from broken gazebos.

 

We’re giggles galore,

stumbling over sofa

cushions to compare

the blankets stuffed

between fat hands,

tying ropes from poles

 

to tables, to shelves,

to expensive televisions

lounging on faux -

pine furniture, and Mum

will come home and shout

at us, but it doesn’t matter

 

because we’re cats,

and we’re pirates,

and we’ve got torches

and stickers, and sails,

and swords, and forts,

and glow-in-the-dark stars.

 

 

Downturn

That day

the sun tore

at our eyes.

 

Now we bob;

heads hovering

over hands

in hope that

when that final

shuffle shears us

from our shoulders

we won’t be

 

headless.