Plughole

Beneath the window, looking down at the London leaf papaya,

Beneath the shivering tree,

All the day’s rushing, submerged.

*

Thumpng vein, dizzy heat, wrinkled steam,

Guts and organs floating within a wobbling cell,

I hear the drip, drip, drip, of the cold water tap.

*

The ship creeks with the weight of it’s ocean,

The tiny shreeks of nudity,

that come from a seabed so smooth and clean.

*

Seaweed skinny legs, nick nack toes,

Heartbeaten ripples, sloshing in stillness,

Beside the drip, drip, drip, of the cold water tap.

*

Bare bones, rack of ribs,

Caged in breathlessness beneath the waterline,

Without a plug to pull.

*

No reflection in the opaque mirror,

But an echo that smashes the silence,

Of the tiled white room,

The drip, drip, drip of the cold water tap,

Nothing more pathetic than a poet,

The drip, drip, drip of the cold water tap,

Nothing more pathetic than a poet.