her face, like a flower
in a closed fist
wrinkled against time, adversity
a patronising counterpart
settled in for a long lag
& the drugs don’t work, all the time
cigarettes, booze, pills, smoke . . .
you name it, it’s viable
as long as it’s a substitute
for reality, three dimensions
a quiet cup of tea
but the dogs are barking
cars growl down the thin streets
sirens screaming, intermittently
a broken tap drips
drips
drips
across the room, nestled amongst
dirty plates piled high
flies buzz amongst the scraps
on the kitchen bench
a few ragged photos litter the walls
& the money’s all gone
two cigarettes ‘til hell
no substitutes immediately avail themselves
as each thing becomes a part of her
like broken crockery strewn across the floor
a flower, in a closed fist.
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