An ode to a chopstick and earwigs
I am still learning my lefts and rights yet new
markings appear here and there
The bath is cracked and the milk curdles once
your toes touch the surface,
Toes that have written anthologies which made
internet poets weep
You are no poet
An ink
scribbled daydream with your cardigan drooping
Sucking on the teats of culture,
a boiling
heartbreak
Reborn of stolen originality.
Yet here we are
singing with the earwigs whilst drumming a chopstick
teach me my left and rights and
I will teach you the art of throwing spare change into the well
or how to have tea parties with car guards
let us be the definition of art breathing through life,
let our toes dangle and voices rise
with the earwigs.
