Awake for no reason but a half moon
And fireworks cracking in the distance
Tip toeing in someone’s dark thoughts
Coincidentally none other but my own
Of all the stories I could have written
Why leave this one behind curtains?
To see a play worth a life of inner work
Open the door behind the ticket officer
Children recite, grownups invent stories
We’re all slaves to human conundrum.
Grandmother proudly wore a dead fox
Which I dearly caressed more than once
The fur was softer than anyone’s hand
It had a scream trapped in its plastic eyes.
In flavourful company and warm safety
Sitting on the floor, in front of the stove
Holding the dead animal by the throat
I, puppeteer child in macabre theatres.
Grandfather much built for physical labour
He’s the one who shot the silver necklace
Now long and supine, creaming coffees
Both in the back of the fanciful graveyard.