No one comes to visit

The Winston’s man is on the telly

I saw him back in ’74

he’s suing for the hole in his belly

in a Playboy behind the cupboard door

and Joey d’Apollo is dying of AIDS

my spirit feels so weak

Gillingham’s trial will be over soon

the sky out side is bleak

no one comes to visit

no-one 

unwashed curtains lie in a pile

in the hall

the dishes stand in greasy water

the oceans a steady rumble

the trains across the bay

leave snaking lite shadows

on my bedroom wall

the Sun then the Moon

mark their passage on my wall.

I’m barely standing.

This wheat spring day

I’ll vote again.