chicken soup

A voice within, assisted by a person without….

I shall sit here, then, just here, my name
a scrawl in your desk diary;
much unlike the heavy prose in my own diaries, I would guess…

You did not catch me, then, teenaged and guilty,
witnessing Orion from this awkward angle;
his belt as straight across the night as reflected, doubled lightposts

Clock ticking, clock ticking, I could attach
words, thoughts, to the beat, but…You did not catch me, did you,
lips moving to thoughts, reading out the invisible…

Those diaries, with their days and their months,
which I do not recognise as mine; though should I claim ownership
your assumptions…

No, I digress.

And those years….their slogans and anniversaries, taking me through time but not
advancing at all,

all the chicken soup for the soul which
sits as a spirit in the cold.

And endlessly, as through these days turns the wind,
regrets as heavy as rhythm,
I will apologise, for the freedom with which I treat context,
is otherwise styled contempt:
but if my accent does not betray my heritage
I do not know what will.