The cork tile.

‘what time is it’, said the wolf.
asked I.
with an eye on the beast and
the other making a beeline for the door.

The door seems to shrink the longer I think about leaving, but I’ve done enough grieving for what was before,
time to open the door,
step outside,
take a ride on the nearest thing going my way
which turns out to be anything
going anywhere today.

The door’s not as far as it seems, but still seems far away,
as if it’s trying to swallow up yesterday,
I hear the wolf say,
‘why don’t you stay, take a seat,
this thing’s got you beat, you’re not going nowhere.
I know,
if I sit on the chair
I become part of the lair,
a web on the ceiling
I feel my life’s peeling away,
so onion skin thin it makes me
to cry,
I ask why and then say,
‘it’s today
it’s today’, and
the wolf goes away.

Red riding hood don’t get a look in,
can’t get her hooks into this
her forte is books,
books I have read,
books which have led me
to here
where the dread be
where fortune is bleeding
me dry.

© 2015, John Smallshaw.

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