Sons fall before their mothers, some from city walls,
Others kicking in their own coughed foam.
They bring them in on trays, like tea, or news.
Who, in my old age, will call me his slave?
I who once turned heads with an eyelash flutter,
Bent double with a stoma, peg-fed, fucked.
Ask an old mouth for the measure of the times
And it stops. The face drops. It’s a kind of
Disappointment. Words can sink or swim.
Oh bald man with a beard and ‘Say your name’ and
‘What’s today?’ and ‘Who is this year’s man?’ These are
Stones dropped in a hollow. I echo.
‘House!’ calls Cassandra, and louder, ‘House!’ again.
Bingo was yesterday; today’s a sing along.
Wrong days. You see the problem, don’t you? Wrong.
Who of any of us knows how their lot will fall,
Out here amongst strangers and strangers to ourselves?
Each day they change the label on someone’s door.
This is the house of sitting futures. This island.
This is the handle. This is the spout.