One day and one day and one day
at a time at a place I can’t place and
a face that’s not mine and one day at
a time in a face I can’t face to a place
out of line on a line that I sign
the med’s are due to kick in.
I can pick holes in it
drive trucks through it
but I sit on my hands
all fingers and thumbs
you probably think that
I’ve had too much
but you’re wrong.
It’s just the time for seeing
my reflections and
the images I cast
how do they last so long?
and before I demand explanations
the need to understand compels
me to understand.
what about you?
can you see through the shielding
where lead leads to lead and
you’re sealed in?
more holes in which I can’t pick more holes
perhaps holes are the new Jerusalem
full of Holy men though not solely
wailing on the wall with Arafat.
in the new Jerusalem all are welcome.
Back to my origins
popcorn and pigeons
counting my toes because
you’ve got to be able to count
up to ten even when
you’re sat on your hands.
© 2017, John Smallshaw.