Jonathan Butcher

Our Shell

It finally stops down those dirt tracks.
Past the leaking windows and rodent
gnawed carpets. Past the parks we
routinely defaced, which now stand
pristine; a constant insult to injury.

It settles in those bedrooms, which
exist as talismans of order, like migrating
sparrows perched on frayed telephone wires.

It settles in that last drop of cider, that no

throat can bring itself to bear.

 

It now finally shakes us, rattles the teeth

from our gums and weakens our legs

so we can finally remain static. We

suffer its kick-back again; slaves to nothing

now but this comforting boredom.

 

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