Cold

Sitting in a square, 
after an allergy attack,
head clouded. 

Your voice, cat-like, 
Scraping out from under my pores.

My eyes stinging,
Breathing shallow,
Water dripping from the fountain like TV static.

The wind has made me blind.
Your hands are too small.
My voice is extinguished.
I can never go back.

Thin phlegm,
wet on my nose.

Pigeons and small children,
curious,
march towards me.
The girl kicks the pigeon.
It wants to kick back.

A man in a suit
points his long ruler
at me,
measuring the ground
for a woman.


She now lets go of the tape,
and it scrapes round in a long curve

Come out and save them,
symbolic red dress lady.
The wind 
accentuates
her bum.

I might be going mad.



7.6.2012