Drunk and shrunk enough,
To fall between the shag pile,
To smell the cracking underlay,
Of small service stations at night,
With sticky tables,
And polystyrene coffee,
Cobbled streets under her window,
And fairy lights above her bed,
Secret gardens with marble statues,
Chapels with hot popcorn,
And pews badged with gum,
Flytrap floors of pure corn syrup,
That kept us from the daylight,

And the eyes of others.


I could have stayed, 
If not for the organs grinding me onward,
Towards the wet hallways of age,
Stepping over puddles of lost love,
And shielding my ears,

Against the drip-drip of time’s weak bladder.