draft

[doris delay]

“this should last a week”
you say, thin lipped defensive
as liar in the kitchen. you’re up early
(again) with your optimistic egg whites
and your bare feet sticking
to the lino

change is slow
at first,
blue freeways harden and narrow
at the white of your elbow/
someone recommends we start reusing tea bags.
we’re not that broke,
‘just finding our feet is all’

you’re laid off in January and go green
for beaches
wet and nostalgic
like a child. ‘maybe we’ll swim this summer.’
i tell people you work freelance
painting shop signs or something like it
three times a week
you flick the plastic. teething
on a leather belt.
i don’t mind screwing someone
who’s dying, i say
“but your body doesn’t fuck
as good as it used to.”



last night i had a dream
i left you in Newcastle
with bug eyed girls
and old bags with skin like yellow cellophane.
(if this reeks of sentimental value
feel free to punch the screen.)