Robert Verdon, #82, Red Morning on St Paddy’s Day

day leaks from the night

and here I am, breathing still,

a red paper bag, a hill, a zephyr

— crumbled biscuit sky, a bantam

egg cracked at the edge,

workmen talking over a digging machine

nearby,

what is to be be done —

the world goes on and who knows why

no point in digging, mother does not live there

a slaw of clouds oppresses the hungry town

(I smell fried banana, the sign of which disease?) 

the world is my spoilt oyster,

and red swords fall from the ceiling

and over there, look Mama, it is green