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#017: Sunday Triolet

Who likes the cold side of the pillow? Trading comfort for ice, first thing in the morn. Is it some martyr-complex, some desire to be hero? Who likes the cold side of the pillow? Why would your overworked and underpaid cheek want to be below zero? Attack their senses at the crack of dawn. Who…
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#016: To make work for who?

To garner respect under their watchful eye He gathered the gold-rimmed dust, the dirt, the crumbs And wove them into a tapestry of pride Their glassy eyes, tumblers full of island rums . That hum of panic, soul’s departure drum will Lead one down those syncopated streets one By one, tongue to the sidewalk, sweeper…
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#015: Like leaves on the ground

Crumpled foliage Flood the streets, the house, the heath Bare spines in plain sight
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#014: On the language floor of a bookshop

I’m trying to decide whether to buy Miguel de Cervantes for kids Or a book on the grammatical structure of Jamaican Creole When- . “Gary, love, you know those twenty pound notes you gave me” . A tinny voice Scratches their way out of a speaker phone The hand that holds the phone Nowhere to…
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#013: I hear a sheep go baa in the middle of the city

9:27pm I hear a sheep go baa in the middle of the city Or perhaps it’s my neighbour’s cat trying to do their Simba thing Or the tease between a stray door and the wind Or maybe a sheep really did go baa. . Their staccato vibrations Pleasantly pierce through the tweeting birds Who have…