Tell me about the senses and I’ll give you instances that they never worked.
Lost in those turnstiles which clank round the windmills and tilt at no dragons I see.
‘Leave me’. she uttered as I mumbled apologies,
it happens to all of us sometime.
They write of me in the penny look-see
I thought I’d be worth more.
When you don’t see it coming
but you know that it’s there,
the smell of the beast that
lays deep in its lair
two out of five
keep me alive
no touching allowed.
© 2018, John Smallshaw.