a short poem

It has never looked like the right key. Hanging 
beside the others. I try it often and slowly
listen to the tumblers say yep yep yep 
yep. 
Shake my head. Sometimes
I quarter turn it 
just to be sure.
I can’t open it. 
That would be devastating.

hangover of words

If anyone finds me in a park        

dribbling metaphors in compass directions

lap full of new books      

and muttering how council workers enjambed

the hedge too much like a map of canada   

       

would you kindly

wipe my chin with melalueca bark

explain to the officer 

about the poetry festival on the weekend

and let me return to society another day.

sincerlycheers

wordfriedprawn.