Youthfulness hides in the folds of my skin
knock, knock, knocking but it can’t get in
and somewhere in there there’s a shout
the youth locked inside and it cannot get out.
Dilemma’s like comma’s arrive
in wrong places,
wrong times and
my spine’s getting shorter
I’m caught in the trap
being kept in the keepnet
and it ain’t all that it’s cracked up
and if you think I’m a keepsake for gods sake
I have memories of china
to line a drawer with
I have odd socks that match
can somebody give
me a light?
Tuesday’s alright but it’s not Friday
© 2017, John Smallshaw.