coughing
like a Model T
maybe
this year will be different
I
think around
the
corrugated iron of a disused watertank
half-unrolled
in a shallow creek
with
a bed of slime and glitter
to
my mind a mighty liner in port
I
am five
the
dauphin of dreams
a
hundred years later
in
bed with what
would
be the flu if I didn’t have
an
injection every autumn
seeking
fulfillment
(imagine
applying for a grant!)
maybe
this year will be different
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