Monday, December 22, 2008

Pot Black.

I started whistling
on the day you died
to drown out
the barking of the black
dog inside.

The problem was
I couldn't whistle
tunes, just one note
high and a bit spitty
with last night's hangover
as the rage and sadness
bubbled inside me.

But

it doesn't mean
anything, you know.

I just wanted to tell
you

that you made me
walk along the streets
like a sad, rusted
old kettle

because

I think we both
would have laughed
at that

over our afternoon
cuppa.

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